-• 


c7cJ 


THE     POEMS 


OF 


FRANK  0.  T1CKNOR,  M.D. 


EDITED    BY 

K.  M.  R. 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE  OF  THE  AUTHOR 

BY 

PAUL   H.   HAYNE. 


PHILAD  ELPH I  A  : 

J.   B.  LIPPINCOTT   &   CO. 
1879. 


Copyright,  1879,  by  ROSA  N.  TlCKNOR. 


;  Not  less  on  him  than  thee  the  mysteries 
Within  him  and  about  him  ever  weigh. 
*  *  *  *  * 

But  on  the  surface  of  his  song  these  lie 
As  shadows,  not  as  darkness ;  and  alway 
There  is  a  human  purpose  in  the  lay." 
TIMROD. 


M64634 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE       ....•••  9 

MARTIAL  AND  CHIVALROUS  LYRICS. 

Dedication    .         .         .         .         .         .         •         •         .21 

The  Virginians  of  the  Valley          .         .         .          .         .  22 

A  Battle  Ballad 23 

"Our  Left" 26 

Little  GifFen 27 

The  Sword  in  the  Sea 29 

Cannon  Song 3° 

"Ora  Pace" 31 

The  River 32 

Virginia         .......-•  33 

The  Gap 35 

Labor— Sacrifice •  36 

Our  Great  Captain .  38 

Albert  Sidney  Johnston 39 

Gracie,  of  Alabama        .         .         .         •         .                  •  39 

Lee 41 

"Unknown" 42 

The  Grays  at  Home .         ,  42 

Gray .         .  44 

Holland 45 

Georgia         .  .         .         .         .         .         .         -47 

The  Constitution 48 

Alexander  Hamilton  Stephens 49 

"Cordelia!  Cordelia!" 52 

Arthur,  the  Great  King  .......  53 

i*  5 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  Caucasian        ........     55 

Under  the  Willows 

Atlant 

Dixie 


Atlantis          .......  157 


°yal    ..........  60 

The  Hieland  Lass  at  Luck  now       ...  ,62 

"  Honor  the  Brave"         .....  6? 

Battle  for  the  Right        .......  64 

"Sans  Change"      ......  6e 

Agonistes       .........  66 

Diogenes        .         .         .         .         .....  67 

"  Barry"  of  St.  Bernard          .....  68 

The  Prisoner  at  Glatz    .......  69 

"Felix"         .......  71 

SONGS  OF  HOME. 

A  Song  for  the  Asking  .......  75 

To  Rosalie    ........  76 

An  April  Morning           .......  77 

Twilight  on  "Torch  Hill"     ......  70, 

"  Do  they  miss  me  at  Home  ?"....  80 

Among  the  Birds  ......  81 

"  In  Mamre"           .......  82 

Wyi      ........       .'-'-'!•'  -83 

To  the  Little  Rosalie     ......  86 

"  Mother's  Work"           .......  87 

Group  of  Ducklings       .         .....         .89 

"  Whippoorwill"    ........  90 

The  Echo  Story     ........  9I 

Poeta  in  Rure         ........  93 

The  Flowers  .........  94 

The  Pedler  Man  at  Torch  Hill       .....  96 

"Gelert"        .........  pg 

Home    ..........  99 

POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  HUMOR. 

"Nina"  —  Her  Eyes        .......   103 

To  the  Little  Lady  Alice        ......    104 


CONTENTS.  7 

PAGE 

Brownie  Belle,  of  the  Esquiline 105 

"Sunbeam" 107 

To  a  Lady  of  Texas,  in  Italy 108 

To-        109 

The  Bride no 

The  Brown  Bridge 1 1 1 

The  Valley  of  Nacoochee 112 

The  Hall .         .         .  "3 

The  Old  Harpsichord 114 

The  Colonnade US 

The  Hills 117 

Junialuskee  .          .          .          .          .          .         •          .121 

Nantahalee 122 

Fable 123 

The  Sphinx 124 

The  Farmer  Man 125 

MEMORIAL  AND  RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 

In  Memoriam      .         .          .         .         .         .         .  133 

William  Nelson  Carter 135 

Mary 136 

The  Churchyard  Cross 137 

Little  Katie 138 

Our  Treasure  in  Heaven       .          .          .          .         .         .138 

"  The  Children  that  are  not" 139 

Faith  ..........  140 

Song  by  Night     .          .          .'         .       .  ,          .          .          .  141 

To  Mrs.  L.  E.  C 142 

Lines  .         .         . 143 

Illuminating  Letters     .......  144 

The  Cemetery 145 

The  Beauty  of  Holiness        .          .          .          .         ...  147 

Easter 148 

The  Church 149 


NTRODUCTORY   NOTICE. 


IN  the  month  of  December,  1874,  died,  near  Colum 
bus,  Georgia,  one  of  the  truest  and  sweetest  lyric  poets 
this  country  has  yet  produced.  Nevertheless,  he  lived 
the  fifty-two  years  of  his  allotted  existence  in  compar 
ative  obscurity,  and  passed  to  the  "great  beyond" 
unknown,  despite  the  rare  originality  of  his  genius  and 
works,  except,  indeed,  to  that  small  portion  of  the 
Southern  public  who  condescend  ^now  and  then  to  pass 
from  politics  to  poetry. 

Dr.  Frank  O.  Ticknor,  born  in  Baldwin  County, 
Georgia,  combined  in  his  mental  and  moral  constitution 
many  of  the  best  qualities  of  the  North  and  South. 
His  father  was  a  "New  Jerseyman,"  a  physician  of 
great  energy,  while  his  grandparents  were  natives  of 
Norwich,  Connecticut.  Dr.  Ticknor,  the  elder,  mar 
ried  into  a  distinguished  family  of  Savannah,  and 
settled  for  a  time  in  that  city.  He  died  a  young  man, 
leaving  his  widow  with  three  small  children  to  support. 
At  once  she  removed  to  the  town  of  Columbus,  ex 
erting  herself  with  such  judicious  perseverance  that 
she  succeeded  in  giving  to  her  sons  excellent  and  liberal 
educations. 

Frank,  when  old  enough,  studied  medicine  in  New 
York  and  Philadelphia,  and  soon  after  his  graduation 
married  Miss  Rosalie  Nelson,  daughter  of  Major  T. 

9 


10  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

M.  Nelson,  a  distinguished  soldier  of  the  War  of  1812, 
and  subsequently  a  prominent  member  of  Congress. 
A  few  years  after  this  union,  Dr.  Ticknor  purchased  a 
farm  not  far  from  Columbus,  situated  on  the  summit  of 
a  high  hill,  and  celebrated  by  tradition  as  the  scene  of  a 
desperate  Indian  battle  which  had  been/0^/  by  torch 
light.  In  consequence  he  named  this  place  "Torch 
Hill." 

Anything  more  picturesque  than  the  view  therefrom 
it  would  be  hard  to  imagine.  The  house  overlooks  for 
miles  on  miles  the  Chattahoochee  Valley,  full  of  waving 
grain-fields  and  opulent  orchards. 

With  the  poet's  love  of  all  that  is  pure,  sweet,  and 
natural,  he  soon  surrounded  his  home  with  flowers  and 
fruits.  In  the  spring  and  summer  I  have  heard  it 
described  as  a  perfect  Eden  of  roses  :  while  towards 
autumn  the  crimson  foliage  and  blushing  tints  of  the 
great  mellow  apples,  especially  if  touched  by  sunset 
lights,  caused  the  "  Hill"  to  gleam  and  glitter  as  with 
the  colors  of  fairy-land.  Here  in  this  peaceful  nest 
Ticknor  lived  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century,  excep 
tionally  blessed  in  his  domestic  relations,  though  more 
than  once  that  Dark  Presence  no  mortal  can  shun  en 
tered  his  househeld,  to  leave  it  for  a  season  desolate. 
Here  he  dreamed  high  dreams  and  beheld  pleasant 
visions.  Art  opened  to  his  soul  not  one  alone,  but 
several  of  her  fairest  domains.  He  was  a  gifted  mu 
sician,  playing  exquisitely  upon  the  flute,  and  a 
draughtsman  of  the  readiest  skill  and  taste.  Still  I 
picture  him  always  as  pre-eminently  the  poet, — the  poet 
"born,"  yet  with  every  natural  endowment  purified 
and  strengthened  by  careful,  scholarly  culture. 

Thus  much   for  one  side  of   his  life.      There  was 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE.  TI 

another  side,  stirring,  practical,  and  often  rife,  as  a 
physician's  career  necessarily  must  be,  with  sad  or 
terrible  details.  If  a  spiritual  "Lotos-Eater"  while 
"sporting  with  his  muse  in  the  shade,"  he  was  all 
energy,  eagerness,  and  well-directed  power  in  the  paths 
of  his  profession.  No  more  experienced  doctor  or 
successful  scientist  than  he  could  be  found  in  the 
county  which  chanced  to  be  the  scene  of  his  labors. 
He  united  a  broad  humanity  and  a  tender  graciousness 
of  tone  and  bearing  to  the  information  of  the  savant 
and  the  skill  of  the  medical  expert.  Everybody  loved 
him,  especially  the  suffering  poor,  to  whom  he  devoted 
a  great  deal  of  his  time  and  attention.  Unostentatious, 
but  profoundly  sincere  in  his  Christian  belief  and  prac 
tice,  he  regarded  the  poverty-smitten  and  the  unfortu 
nate  as  pensioners  directly  assigned  to  his  care  by 
Providence. 

Far  and  wide,  among  the  "sand-barrens"  or  in  the 
farmhouses  of  the  neighboring  valley,  the  good  and 
wise  physician  was  known  and  welcomed.  His  gleeful 
smile,  his  spontaneous  criticisms  (for  his  mind  actually 
bubbled  over  with  innocent  humors),  cheered  up  many 
a  despondent  invalid,  and  it  is  possible  scared  Despair, 
if  not  Death  himself,  away  from  the  bedsides  of  patients 
just  about  finally  to  succumb. 

What  wonder,  therefore,  that  when — partly  through 
fatigue,  exposure,  and  the  unremitting  discharge  of 
duty — their  benefactor  was,  in  his  turn,  stricken  down, 
to  die  after  a  brief,  painful  illness,  the  community 
mourned  him  as  only  those  are  mourned  who  could 
truly  say,  like  Abou  ben  Adhem,  in  his  vision  of  the 
Angel  and  the  Book  of  Gold,  "  Write  me  as  one  who 
loved  his  fellow-men"  ? 


12  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

This  imperfect  outline  of  Ticknor's  life  was  necessary 
to  the  full  comprehension  of  his  poetry.  "  Brief  swal 
low-flights  of  song"  only  were  possible  to  a  man  whose 
days  and  nights  were  so  occupied  by  important  and 
exacting  toils.  And  in  some  respects  this  was  fortunate, 
since  the  comparatively  little  leisure  enjoyed  by  the 
poet  forced  him  to  concentrate  his  powers, — to  utilize 
them  to  the  very  best  advantage. 

When  the  great  Civil  War  began,  Ticknor  had  just 
reached  the  verge  of  middle  age.  His  intellectual 
forces  were  in  their  fullest  bloom  ;  and  so  it  is  not 
surprising  that  many  of  his  ablest  songs  belong  to  this 
period. 

Look,  for  example,  at  his  "Virginians  of  the  Val 
ley."  It  is  so  short  that  we  can  readily  quote  it  entire: 

"THE    VIRGINIANS   OF   THE   VALLEY. 

"  The  knightliest  of  the  knightly  race 

That,  since  the  days  of  old, 
Have  kept  the  lamp  of  chivalry 

Alight  in  hearts  of  gold; 
The  kindliest  of  the  kindly  band 

That,  rarely  hating  ease, 
Yet  rode  with  Spotswood  round  the  land, 

And  Raleigh  round  the  seas ; 

"  Who  climbed  the  blue  Virginian  hills 

Against  embattled  foes, 
And  planted  there,  in  valleys  fair, 

The  lily  and  the  rose; 
Whose  fragrance  lives  in  many  lands, 

Whose  beauty  stars  the  earth, 
And  lights  the  hearths  of  happy  homes 

With  loveliness  and  worth. 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE.  I3 

"  We  thought  they  slept ! — the  sons  who  kci  t 

The  names  of  noble  sires, 
And  slumbered  while  the  darkness  crept 

Around  their  vigil-fires ; 
But,  aye,  the  '  Golden  Horseshoe'  knights 

Their  old  Dominion  keep, 
Whose  foes  have  found  enchanted  ground, 

But  not  a  knight  asleep !" 

Is  not  this,  reader,  a  splendid  lyric?  Whether  you 
are  of  the  South  or  the  North,  especially  now  that  the 
old  sectional  animosities  seem  to  be  dying  out,  I  feel 
sure  you  must  alike  admire  it.  The  verve  and  fire  of 
the  conception  and  the  simple  straightforward  powers 
of  the  execution  make  it  a  most  impressive  ballad. 
James  Russell  Lowell,  in  a  recent  "Ode,"  has  elo 
quently  praised  Virginia;  but  there  is  a  heart-drawn 
pathos,  a  half-subdued  passion  in  Ticknor's  poem  which 
seems  to  me  more  effective  still.  Apropos  of  the  lat- 
ter's  style,  James  Maurice  Thompson,  himself  so  true 
a  lyrist,  has  remarked  that  "it  is  best  suited  to  forceful 
ballads.  Something  in  the  direct,  clear,  ringing  ex 
pression  of  his  '  Virginians'  reminds  us  of 

"  '  Mais  quand  la  pauvre  champagne 
Put  en  proie  aux  etrangers, 
Lui,  bravant  tons  les  dangers, 
Semblait  seul  tcnir  la  campagne.'1 

With  Ticknor,  as  with  Beranger,  strength  is  simplicity, 
art  is  naturalness."  Mr.  Thompson  continues  :  "  Few 
poets  acknowledge  that,  to  stir  the  feelings  and  reach 
the  inmost  heart  of  the  masses,  one  must  make  use  of 
those  materials  which  are  suited  to  the  vulgar  under 
standing.  See  the  final  stanza  of  that  inimitable  ballad, 
' La  Vache  Perdue?  by  Casimir  Delavigne  : 


i  4  INTR  OD  UCTOR  Y  NO  TICE. 

"  '  Un  soir,  a  ma  fenetre, 
Neva,  pour  fabriter, 
De  ta  come  peiit-etre 
Tu  reviendras  hettrter. 
Si  la  famille  est  morte, 

Neva, 
Qui  £  ouvrira  la  porte  ? 

Ah!  ah!  Neva!' 

Now  Ticknor's  ballad  of  '  Little  Giffen'  is  a  ballad 
precisely  of  the  style  of  Delavigne.  The  opening 
stanza  is  a  bold  swell  of  music,  something  clarion- 
like. 

"  '  Out  of  the  focal  and  foremost  fire, 
Out  of  the  hospital  walls  as  dire ; 
Smitten  of  grape-shot  and  gangrene, 
(Eighteenth  battle,  and  he  sixteen  !) 
Spectre  !  such  as  you  seldom  see, 
Little  Giffen,  of  Tennessee  !' 

The  identical  rhyme  of  the  last  couplet  one  loses  sight 
of  in  the  exceeding  terseness  of  the  language,  the  out 
right  vigor  of  the  rhetorical  stroke.  Most  poets  dally 
with  their  conceptions.  But  this  one  seizes  his  idea  at 
once,  thrusts  it  into  a  position  of  strong  relief,  fastens 
it  there,  and  is  done.  Technically  speaking,  his  style 
is  dynamic. 

"  Here  is  another  verse  of  *  Little  Giffen'  : 

" '  Word  of  gloom  from  the  war,  one  day; 
Johnson  pressed  at  the  front,  they  say. 
Little  Giffen  was  up  and  away; 
A  tear — his  first— as  he  bade  good-by, 
Dimmed  the  glint  of  his  steel-blue  eye ; 
"  /'//  write,  if  spared."     There  was  news  of  the  fight; 
But  none  of  Giffen. — He  did  not  write.' 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE.  15 

The    poem    rounds   off    half-solemnly,    half-play  fully, 
thus: 

"  '  I  sometimes  fancy  that,  were  I  king 

Of  the  princely  Knights  of  the  Golden  Ring, 
With  the  song  of  the  minstrel  in  mine  ear, 
And  the  tender  legend  that  trembles  here, 
I'd  give  the  best  on  his  bended  knee, 
The  whitest  soul  of  my  chivalry, 
For  "  Little  Giffen,"  of  Tennessee.' 

"Now,  here  is  no  straining  after  effect,  no  floundering 
to  get  up  a  foam;  but  that  sturdy  art  which  is  the  spirit 
of  a  genuine  popular  ballad." 

Another  poem,  which  explains  itself, — an  absolutely 
perfect  ballad  (i*ejudice\ — I  cannot  resist  the  pleasure 
of  extracting.  Was  ever  the  historical  incident  it 
commemorates  more  feelingly  and  vividly  described  ? 
These  verses  are  simply  entitled 


"  LOYAL. 

"  The  good  Lord  Douglas — dead  of  old- 

In  his  last  journeying 
Wore  at  his  heart,  encased  in  gold, 
The  heart  of  Bruce,  his  king, 

"  Through  Paynim  lands  to  Palestine — 

For  so  his  troth  was  plight — 
To  lay  that  gold  on  Christ  his  shrine, 
Let  fall  what  peril  might. 

"  By  night  and  day,  a  weary  way 

Of  vigil  and  of  fight, 
Where  never  rescue  came  by  day, 
Nor  ever  rest  by  night. 


I  6  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

"  And  one  by  one  the  valiant  spears 

Were  smitten  from  his  side  : 

And  one  by  one  the  bitter  tears 

Fell  for  the  brave  that  died. 

"Till  fierce  and  black  around  his  track 

He  saw  the  combat  close, 
And  counted  but  the  single  sword 
Against  uncounted  foes. 

"  He  drew  the  casket  from  his  breast, 

He  bared  his  solemn  brow  ! 
Oh,  foremost  of  the  ki ugliest ! 
Go  '  first  in  battle'  now  ! 

"  Where  leads  my  Lord  of  Bruce,  the  sword 

Of  Douglas  shall  not  stay  ! 
Forward  !     We  meet  at  Christ  His  feet 
In  Paradise,  to-day  ! 

"The  casket  flashed;  the  battle  clashed, 

Thundered,  and  rolled  away; 
And  dead  above  the  heart  of  Bruce 
The  heart  of  Douglas  lay  ! 

"  Loyal!     Methinks  the  antique  mould 

Is  lost,  or  theirs  alone 
Who  sheltered  Freedom's  heart  of  gold, 
Like  Douglas,  with  their  own  !" 

A  single  other  lyric  associated  with  the  war  and  its 
sorrows,  and  I  shall  close  : 

"UNKNOWN! 

"  The  prints  of  feet  are  worn  away, 

No  more  the  mourners  come  ; 
The  voice  of  wail  is  mute  to-day 
As  his  whose  life  is  dumb. 


INTR  OD  UCTOR  Y  NO  TICE.  1  7 

"  The  world  is  bright  with  other  bloom ; 

Shall  the  sweet  summer  shed 
Its  living  radiance  o'er  the  tomb 
That  shrouds  the  doubly  dead  ? 

"  Unknown !     Beneath  our  Father's  face 

The  starlit  hillocks  lie ; 
Another  rosebud  !  lest  His  grace 
Forget  us  when  we  die  !" 

Ah  !  how  many  thousands  must  be  still  living  to 
whom  this  ballad,  rounded  and  limpid  as  a  tear,  though 
simple  almost  to  baldness  in  expression,  must  appeal 
with  a  pathos  not  to  be  resisted  ! 

Burns  himself  was  not  more  direct,  more  transpar 
ently  honest  in  his  metrical  appeals  than  Ticknor. 

There  are  no  fantastic  conceits,  no  far-fetched  similes, 
no  dilettanteism  of  any  sort  in  his  verses. 

The  man's  soul — sturdy  yet  gentle,  stalwart  yet 
touched  by  a  feminine  sweetness — "informed"  them 
always;  and,  if  it  can  hardly  be  said  of  his  lyrics  that 
each  was  "polished  as  the  bosom  of  a  star,"  still  the 
light  irradiating  them  seldom  failed  to  be  light  from 
the  heaven  of  a  true  inspiration. 

PAUL   H.  HAYNE. 


MARTIAL  AND    CHIVALROUS  LYRICS. 


>9 


DEDICATION. 

E.    P.    C. A    LILY    OF   THE    VALLEY. 

THY  smile,  sweet  sister,  on  my  lay, 

Is  as  the  stars,  I  ween, 
That  brightens  o'er  this  brilliant's  ray, 

Which,  else,  no  light  had  seen  ! 
That  kindles  o'er  some  brooklet's  way, 

Where,  else,  no  song  had  been  ! 

If  aught  of  summer  worth  it  brings 

In  bloom  or  melodies, 
'Tis  little  for  the  lyric  wings 

Thy  radiance  taught  to  rise, 
But  little  for  a  bird  that  sings 

So  near  his  Paradise. 

By  Hope  in  many  a  broken  home, 

And  by  the  tears  that  shed 
The  proudest  splendor  of  the  tomb 

Above  the  humblest  head, 
This  song  but  asks  thy  soul's  perfume 

To  crown  our  Quick  and  Dead. 


22         MARTIAL   AND    CHIVALROUS  LYRICS. 


VIRGINIANS  OF  THE  VALLEY. 

(W.    N.    N.) 

THE  knightliest  of  the  knightly  race 

That,  since  the  days  of  old, 
Have  kept  the  lamp  of  chivalry 

Alight  in  hearts  of  gold  ; 
The  kindliest  of  the  kindly  band 

That,  rarely  hating  ease, 
Yet  rode  with  Spotswood  round  the  land, 

And  Raleigh  round  the  seas ; 

Who  climbed  the  blue  Virginian  hills 

Against  embattled  foes, 
And  planted  there,  in  valleys  fair, 

The  lily  and  the  rose ; 
Whose  fragrance  lives  in  many  lands, 

Whose  beauty  stars  the  earth, 
And  lights  the  hearths  of  happy  homes 

With  loveliness  and  worth. 

We  thought  they  slept ! — the  sons  who  kept 

The  names  of  noble  sires, 
And  slumbered  while  the  darkness  crept 

Around  their  vigil-fires  ; 
But,  aye,  the  "Golden  Horseshoe"  knights 

Their  old  Dominion  keep, 
Whose  foes  have  found  enchanted  ground, 

But  not  a  knight  asleep! 


A  BATTLE   BALLAD.  23 


A    BATTLE   BALLAD. 

TO    GENERAL   J.    E.    JOHNSTON. 

A  SUMMER  Sunday  morning, 

July  the  twenty-first, 
In  eighteen  hundred  sixty-one, 

The  storm  of  battle  burst. 

For  many  a  year  the  thunder 

Had  muttered  deep  and  low, 
And  many  a  year,  through  hope  and  fear, 

The  storm  had  gathered  slow. 

Now  hope  had  fled  the  hopeful, 

And  fear  was  with  the  past ; 
And  on  Manassas'  cornfields 

The  tempest  broke  at  last. 

A  wreath  above  the  pine-tops, 

The  booming  of  a  gun  ; 
A  ripple  on  the  cornfields, 

And  the  battle  was  begun. 

A  feint  upon  our  centre, 

While  the  foeman  massed  his  might, 
For  our  swift  and  sure  destruction, 

With  his  overwhelming  "right." 


24         MARTIAL  AND    CHIVALROUS  LYRICS. 

All  the  summer  air  was  darkened 
With  the  tramping  of  their  host ; 

All  the  Sunday  stillness^broken 
By  the  clamor  of  their  boast. 

With  their  lips  of  savage  shouting, 
And  their  eyes  of  sullen  wrath, 

Goliath,  with  the  weaver-beam, 
The  champion  of  Gath. 

Are  they  men  who  guard  the  passes, 
On  our  "  left"  so  far  away? 

In  thy  cornfields,  O  Manassas ! 
Are  they  men  who  fought  to-day  ? 

Our  boys  are  brave  and  gentle, 

And  their  brows  are  smooth  and  white  ; 

Have  they  grown  to  men,  Manassas, 
In  the  watches  of  a  night? 

Beyond  the  grassy  hillocks 

There  are  tents  that  glimmer  white  ; 

Beneath  the  leafy  covert 

There  is  steel  that  glistens  bright. 

There  are  eyes  of  watchful  reapers 
Beneath  the  summer  leaves, 

With  a  glitter  as  of  sickles 
Impatient  for  the  sheaves. 

They  are  men  who  guard  the  passes, 
They  are  men  who  bar  the  ford  ; 

Stands  our  David  at  Manassas, 
The  champion  of  the  Lord. 


A  BATTLE  BALLAD. 

They  are  men  who  guard  our  altars, 
And  beware,  ye  sons  of  Gath, 

The  deep  and  deathful  silence 
Of  the  lion  in  your  path. 

Lo  !  the  foe  was  mad  for  slaughter, 
And  the  whirlwind  hurtled  on ; 

But  our  boys  had  grown  to  heroes, 
They  were  lions,  every  one. 

And  they  stood  a  wall  of  iron, 
And  they  shone  a  wall  of  flame, 

And  they  beat  the  baffled  tempest 
To  the  caverns  whence  it  came. 

And  Manassas'  sun  descended 

On  their  armies  crushed  and  torn, 

On  a  battle  bravely  ended, 
On  a  nation  grandly  born. 

The  laurel  and  the  cypress, 
The  glory  and  the  grave, 

We  pledge  to  thee,  O  Liberty  ! 
The  life-blood  of  the  brave. 


26         MARTIAL  AND   CHIVALROUS  LYRICS. 


"OUR   LEFT." 

(MANASSAS.) 

FROM  dawn  to  dark  they  stood 
That  long  midsummer  day, 

While  fierce  and  fast 

The  battle  blast 
Swept  rank  on  rank  away. 

From  dawn  to  dark  they  fought, 
With  legions  torn  and  cleft ; 
And  still  the  wide 
Black  battle-tide 
Poured  deadlier  on  "  Our  Left." 

They  closed  each  ghastly  gap ; 

They  dressed  each  shattered  rank  ; 
They  knew — how  well — 
That  Freedom  fell 
With  that  exhausted  flank. 

"  Oh,  for  a  thousand  men 
Like  these  that  melt  away  !" 
And  down  they  came, 
With  steel  and  flame, 
Four  thousand  to  the  fray  ! 

Right  through  the  blackest  cloud 
Their  lightning  path  they  cleft ; 


LITTLE    GIFFEN.  27 

And  triumph  came 

With  deathless  fame 

To  our  unconquered  "  Left." 

Ye,  of  your  sons  secure, 
Ye,  of  your  dead  bereft, 
Honor  the  brave 
Who  died  to  save 
Your  #//upon  our  "  Left." 


LITTLE    GIFFEN. 

OUT  of  the  focal  and  foremost  fire, 
Out  of  the  hospital  walls  as  dire ; 
Smitten  of  grape-shot  and  gangrene, 
(Eighteenth  battle,  and  he  sixteen  !) 
Spectre  !  such  as  you  seldom  see, 
Little  Giffen,  of  Tennessee  ! 

"  Take  him  and  welcome  !"  the  surgeons  said  ; 

Little  the  doctor  can  help  the  dead  ! 

So  we  took  him ;  and  brought  him  where 

The  balm  was  sweet  in  the  summer  air ; 

And  we  laid  him  down  on  a  wholesome  bed — 

Utter  Lazarus,  heel  to  head  ! 

And  we  watched  the  war  with  abated  breath, — 
Skeleton  Boy  against  skeleton  Death. 
Months  of  torture,  how  many  such? 
Weary  weeks  of  the  stick  and  crutch ; 


28         MARTIAL  AND   CHIVALROUS  LYRICS. 

And  still  a  glint  of  the  steel-blue  eye 
Told  of  a  spirit  that  wouldn't  die, 

And  didn't.     Nay,  more  !  in  death's  despite 
The  crippled  skeleton  "learned  to  write." 
Dear  mother,  at  first,  of  course ;  and  then 
Dear  captain,  inquiring  about  the  men. 
Captain's  answer  :   of  eighty-and-five, 
Giffen  and  I  are  left  alive. 

Word  of  gloom  from  the  war,  one  day ; 

Johnson  pressed  at  the  front,  they  say. 

Little  Giffen  was  up  and  away ; 

A  tear — his  f)rst — as  he  bade  good-by, 

Dimmed  the  glint  of  his  steel-blue  eye. 

"  /'//  write,  if  spared  !"     There  was  news  of  the  fight  ; 

But  none  of  Giffen. — He  did  not  write. 

I  sometimes  fancy  that,  were  I  king 

Of  the  princely  Knights  of  the  Golden  Ring, 

With  the  song  of  the  minstrel  in  mine  ear, 

And  the  tender  legend  that  trembles  here, 

I'd  give  the  best  on  his  bended  knee, 

The  whitest  soul  of  my  chivalry, 

For  "Little  Giffen,"  of  Tennessee. 


THE   SWORD   IN   THE   SEA.  29 


THE    SWORD    IN    THE    SEA. 

THE  billows  plunge  like  steeds  that  bear 
The  knights  with  snow-white  crests; 

The  sea-winds  blare  like  bugles  where 
The  Alabama  rests. 

Old  glories  from  their  splendor-mists 

Salute  with  trump  and  hail 
The  sword  that  held  the  ocean  lists 

Against  the  world  in  mail. 

And  down  from  England's  storied  hills, 

From  lyric  slopes  of  France, 
The  old  bright  wine  of  valor  fills 

The  chalice  of  Romance. 

For  here  was  Glory's  tourney-field, 

The  tilt-yard  of  the  sea  ; 
The  battle-path  of  kingly  wrath, 

And  kinglier  courtesy. 

And  down  the  deeps,  in  sumless  heaps, 

The  gold,  the  gem,  the  pearl, 
In  one  broad  blaze  of  splendor,  belt 

Great  England  like  an  earl. 

And  there  they  rest,  the  princeliest 

Of  earth's  regalia  gems, 
The  starlight  of  our  Southern  Cross, 

The  sword  of  Raphael  Semmes. 


MARTIAL  AND   CHIVALROUS   LYRICS. 


CANNON    SONG. 

TO    CAPTAIN    E.    A.    DAWSON. 

AHA  !  a  song  for  the  trumpet's  tongue, 

For  the  bugle  to  sing  before  us, 
When  our  gleaming  guns,  like  clarions, 

Shall  thunder  in  battle  chorus  ! 
Where  the  rifles  ring,  where  the  bullets  sing, 

Where  the  black  bombs  whistle  o'er  us, 
With  rolling  wheel  and  rattling  peal 

We'll  thunder  in  battle  chorus ! 

CHORUS. 

With  the  cannon's  flash  and  the  cannon's  crash, 

With  the  cannon's  roar  and  rattle, 
Let  Freedom's  sons,  with  their  shouting  guns, 

Go  down  to  their  country's  battle ! 

Their  brassy  throats  shall  learn  the  notes 

That  make  old  tyrants  quiver, 
Till  the  war  is  won  or  each  Tyrrell  gun 

Grows  cold  with  our  hearts  forever. 
Where  the  laurel  waves  o'er  our  brothers'  graves, 

Who  have  gone  to  their  rest  before  us, 
Here's  a  requiem  shall  sound  for  them, 

And  thunder  in  battle  chorus  ! 

With  the  cannon's  flash,  etc. 


"ORA   PACE." 

By  the  light  that  lies  in  our  Southern  skies, 

By  the  spirits  that  watch  above  us ; 
By  the  gentle  hands  in  our  summer  lands, 

And  the  gentle  hearts  that  love  us, 
Our  fathers'  faith  let  us  keep  till  death, 

Their  fame  in  its  cloudless  splendor, 
As  men  who  stand  for  their  mother-land, 

And  die — but  never  surrender  ! 

With  the  cannon's  flash,  with  the  cannon's  crash, 

With  the  cannon's  roar  and  rattle, 
Let  Freedom's  sons,  with  their  gleaming  guns, 

Go  down  to  their  country's  battle  ! 


31 


"ORA    PACE." 

Ora  Pace  !  Pray  for  Peace  ! 
Till  these  times  of  tumult  cease ! 
Ye  with  heavy  hearts  and  eyes, 
Watchers  as  the  war-clouds  rise, 
Though  the  shadows  still  increase, 
Gentle  spirits  !  Pray  for  Peace  ! 

Ora  Pace  !     Ye  that  lift 
The  nation's  weapons,  keen  and  swift, 
Ere  ye  loose  the  thunder,  pray 
That  the  wrath  may  pass  away  ! 
Ere  the  lightnings  ye  release, 
Patriot  statesmen,  Pray  for  Peace  ! 


32         MARTIAL  AND    CHIVALROUS  L  YRICS. 

Ora  Pace  !     Ye  that  stand 
The  shield  and  summer  of  the  land ; 
Though  the  blood  is  hot  and  high, 
Bounding  for  the  battle-cry, 
Remember,  boys,  whose  kiss  ye  bear, 
And  pray  for  peace,  ye  sons  of  Prayer ! 

Ora  Pace  /     Who  shall  tread 

Our  Lilies,  when  that  prayer  is  said  ? 

Dark  may  be  the  sullen  tide 

Of  the  stranger's  lust  and  pride, 

But,  our  God  shall  still  increase 

The  strength  that  strikes  and  prays  for  Peace. 


THE    RIVER. 

HOLD  to  the  giant  river, 

Ye,  with  a  giant  claim  ! 
Yours  from  the  great  All-Giver, 

Yours  in  Jehovah's  name  ! 
By  fireside,  field,  and  altar, 

By  temple,  by  grove,  by  grave, 
By  the  smiles  and  tears 
Of  a  hundred  years, 
By  the  life-time  toil  of  your  pioneers 

And  the  life-blood  of  your  braves. 

De  Soto  sleeps  in  its  bosom, 

Yet  the  dreamer's  dream  was  truth, 


VIRGINIA.  33 

And  he  left  to  your  watch  the  waters 

Of  the  world's  immortal  youth  ; 
Yours  from  the  fount  of  story, 

Yours  till  oblivion's  wave, 
By  the  deed  of  your  day  of  glory, 

By  the  seal of  your  Sidney's  grave, 
For  yourselves,  for  your  sons,  forever, 

And  ever,  to  hold  and  to  have : 
The  broad  and  abounding  river, 

Down  to  the  salt  sea  wave  ; 
While  the  waters  flow, 
While  the  grasses  grow, 
Till  the  last  of  your  race  lies  cold  and  low, 

Or  God  forgets  the  brave  ! 


VIRGINIA. 

TRIPLE  triumph  to  thy  spears, 

Virginia ! 
Daughter  of  the  cavaliers, 

Virginia  ! 

Let  the  timbrel  and  the  dance 
Tell  of  thine  anointed  lance, 
Tell  of  thy  deliverance, 

Virginia  ! 

On  the  shore  and  by  the  sea, 
Virginia  ! 

Thou  hast  triumphed  gloriously, 
Virginia ! 


34         MARTIAL  AND    CHIVALROUS  LYRICS. 

Loftier  head  of  haughtier  foe, 
Laid  in  dust  of  battle  low, 
Never  decked  thy  saddle-bow, 
Virginia ! 


Awful  through  thy  blinding  tears, 

Virginia ! 
Blazed  the  light  of  buried  years, 

Virginia ! 

Spirits  of  the  mighty  dead 
Followed  still  thy  battle  tread, 
Followed  where  thy  falchion  led, 
Virginia ! 

Heart  to  heart,  they  smote  again, 

Virginia ! 

The  savage  and  the  Saracen, 
Virginia ! 

Soul  to  soul,  as  son  and  sire, 
Sword  of  wrath  and  heart  of  fire, 
Swept  to  vengeance  swift  and  dire, 
Virginia ! 

Mailed  in  thine  immortal  wrong, 

Virginia ! 
Let  thy  sorrows  make  thee  strong, 

Virginia ! 

Clothe  thee,  quarter-deck  to  keel, 
Harness  thee  from  head  to  heel, 
Massive  oak  and  sheeted  steel, 
Virginia  ! 


THE    GAP.  35 

Onward  yet,  thou  heart  of  gold, 

Virginia ! 
First  in  freedom's  fight  of  old, 

Virginia ! 

Forward  yet  !  the  grace  that  flings 
The  heart  to  death  above  a  king's 
Shall  follow  where  thy  bugle  sings, 

Virginia ! 


THE    GAP. 

(BOONSBORO'  GAP,  OR  SOUTH  MOUNTAIN  PASS.) 
TO    D.  H.  HILL. 

PROUDER  than  Persia's  noontide  was 
The  dawn  that  hurled  yon  bannered  mass, 
The  banded  Orient,  on  the  pass 
Barred  by  thine  arm,  Leonidas  ! 

But  prouder  still  the  vestal  lights 
Of  glory  on  these  vigil  heights ; 
And  proudest  yet  the  hand  that  writes, 
Here  wrestled  Arthur  and  his  Knights  ! 


3 6          MARTIAL  AND    CHIVALROUS  LYRICS. 


L  A  B  O  R— S  A  C  R I  F  I  C  E. 

WITH    THE    DEVICE    OF  A    BULLOCK  ;    FROM    THE    SEAL  OF 
A   SOUTHERN    GENTLEMAN. 

THAT  cream  was  of  the  kindliest  strain 

That  meadow  ever  drew 
From  sunlight  and  the  summer  rain, 

From  darkness  and  the  dew  ! 
That  left  no  stain  in  yonder  vein 
But  Heaven's — the  sapphire  blue. 
That  gentleman,  we  knew, 
So  gentle  and  so  true ; 
A  knight  whose  signet  bore 
A  "  Bullock,"  and  no  more; 
A  quaint  device,  by  Sacrifice 
And  Labor  won  of  yore  ! 

And  matchless  sweet  the  golden  wheat 

That  met  and  moulded  him, 
A  man  complete  from  head  to  feet 

In  grace  of  soul  and  limb ; 
That  lent  his  gaze  the  lion's  blaze, 
His  smile — who  smiles  like  him  ? 
Ah  !   tremulous  and  dim, 
Through  tears  we  think  of  him, 
The  knight  whose  signet  bore 
That  quaint  device  of  "Sacrifice" 
And  "Labor,"  and  no  more. 


LAB  OR—SA  CRIFICE.  3  7 

Upon  no  statelier  sight 

The  circling  sun  hath  smiled, 
Nor  oak  of  loftier  height 

Dropped  shade  so  sweet  and  mild  ; 
Where  love  came  down  like  light, 
And  happiness  grew  wild  ! 

The  sage,  the  little  child, 
Peasant  and  prince,  have  smiled 
Around  his  knees  who  bore 
The  Bullock  ;  quaint  device 
Of  Toil  and  Sacrifice, 
Which  all  his  fathers  wore, 
Which  he  shall  wear  no  more. 

For  he  is  dead  !     Beneath  the  tread 

Of  battle,  in  the  roar 
That  rent  the  sod,  his  face  to  God, 

He  went,  and  came  no  more  ! 
The  fragrance  of  the  path  he  trod 
In  sacrifice  is  o'er. 

Yet  all  the  kindliest  rays 
Of  all  the  knightliest  days 
Kindled  forevermore, 
Around  the  cross  he  bore ; 
Around  the  quaint  device 
Of  Toil  and  Sacrifice 
That  our  great  Bishop*  wore. 

*  Rt.  Rev.  Stephen  Elliott,  of  Georgia. 


3 8         MARTIAL   AND    CHIVALROUS  LYRICS. 

OUR    GREAT    CAPTAIN. 

"STONEWALL"  JACKSON. 

THE  shout  of  the  battle  hath  fled, 
The  flame  of  it  fallen  dim ; 

We  are  sick  of  the  war,  it  is  said, 
Weary  of  tales  so  grim. 

But  to-night,  and  our  captain  lies  dead  ; 
To-night,  and  we  think  of  him. 

Knight  of  the  cloudless  sun, 

Ithuriel  of  the  spear, 
Whose  touch  was  the  foe  undone, 

Whose  name  was  a  nation's  cheer  ; 
His  voice  and  victory's — one, 

Vanished  in  silence  here. 

But  the  flash  of  a  fusillade, 

In  the  gloom  that  hath  lifted  never, 

And  our  guide  and  our  glory  fade 
In  the  wilderness  forever, 

Till  we  follow  his  smile  to  the  shade 
Of  the  Tree,  by  the  Eden  river. 

In  the  shadows  with  no  release 

From  the  sorrows  that  haunt  us  grim, 

Where  our  hopes  at  their  fountain  cease, 
And  the  light  of  the  Heaven  is  dim, 

It  is  strength,  it  is  hope,  it  is  peace, 
It  is  triumph  to  think  of  ///;;/. 


ALBERT  SIDNEY  JOHNSTON.  39 


ALBERT    SIDNEY    JOHNSTON. 

SHILOH. 

His  soul  to  God  !   on  a  battle-psalm  ! 

The  soldier's  plea  to  Heaven  ! 
From  the  victor- wreath  to  the  shining  Palm  : 
From  the  battle's  core  to  the  central  calm, 

And  peace  of  God  in  Heaven. 

Oh,  Land  !   in  your  midnight  of  mistrust 

The  golden  gates  flew  wide, 
And  the  kingly  soul  of  your  wise  and  just 
Passed  in  light  from  the  house  of  dust 

To  the  Home  of  the  Glorified. 


GRACIE,    OF    ALABAMA. 

[TO    GENERAL   R.    H.    CHILTON.] 

ON,  sons  of  mighty  stature, 

And  souls  that  match  the  best; — 

When  nations  name  their  jewels 
Let  Alabama  rest. 


MARTIAL  AND    CHIVALROUS  LYRICS. 

Gracie,  of  Alabama ! 

'Twas  on  that  dreadful  day 
When  howling  hounds  were  fiercest, 

With  Petersburg  at  bay. 

Gracie,  of  Alabama, 

Walked  down  the  lines  with  Lee, 
Marking  through  mists  of  gunshot 

The  clouds  of  enemy ; 

Scanning  the  Anaconda 

At  every  scale  and  joint ; 
And  halting,  glasses  levelled 

At  gaze  on  "  Dead  Man's  Point." 

Thrice,  Alabama's  warning 

Fell  on  a  heedless  ear, 
While  the  relentless  lead-storm, 

Converging,  hurtled  near; 

Till  straight  before  his  chieftain, 

Without  or  sound  or  sign, 
He  stood,  a  shield  the  grandest, 

Against  the  Union  line : 

And  then  the  glass  was  lowered, 
And  voice  that  faltered  not 

Said,  in  its  measured  cadence, 
"Why,  Gracie,  you'll  be  shot !" 

And  Alabama  answered : 

"The  South  will  pardon  me 

If  the  ball  that  goes  through  Gracie 
Comes  short  of  Robert  Lee  !" 


LEE.  41 

Swept  a  swift  flash  of  crimson 

Athwart  the  chieftain's  cheek, 
And  the  eyes  whose  glance  was  "  knighthood" 

Spake  as  no  king  could  speak. 

And  side  by  side  with  Grade 

He  turned  from  shot  and  flame  ; 
Side  by  side  with  Gracie 

Up  the  grand  aisle  of  Fame. 


LEE. 

THIS  wondrous  valley  !  hath  it  spells 

And  golden  alchemies, 
That  so  its  chaliced  splendor  dwells 

In  these  imperial  eyes? 

This  man  hath  breathed  all  balms  of  light, 
And  quaffed  all  founts  of  grace, 

Till  Glory,  on  the  mountain  height, 
Has  met  him  face  to  face. 

Ye  kingly  hills  !  ye  dimpled  dells  ! 

Haunt  of  the  eagle — dove, 
Grant  us  your  wine  of  woven  spells 

To  grow  like  him  we  love  ! 


42          MARTIAL  AND   CHIVALROUS  LYRICS. 


"UNKNOWN." 

THE  prints  of  feet  are  worn  away, 
No  more  the  mourners  come  ; 

The  voice  of  wail  is  mute  to-day 
As  his  whose  life  is  dumb. 

The  world  is  bright  with  other  bloom ; 

Shall  the  sweet  summer  shed 
Its  living  radiance  o'er  the  tomb 

That  shrouds  the  doubly  dead  ? 

Unknown  !     Beneath  our  Father's  face 

The  star-lit  hillocks  lie ; 
Another  rosebud  !  lest  His  grace 

Forget  us  when  we  die. 


THE    GRAYS    AT    HOME. 

UP  the  hill,  mine  honored  Gray  ! 
We  are  going  home — '*  To  stay  !" 

Around  the  hill,  below  the  heights, 
Cling  the  glooms  and  gleam  the  lights. 

Glamour  of  the  evil  eyes  ! 
Spume  of  hate  that  never  dies  ! 


THE    GRA  YS  AT  HOME.  43 

Let  the  cauldron  boil  below  ! 
Wish  the  world  a  fairer  foe  ! 


Balsam  to  our  battle-scars 
Climbing  nearer  to  the  stars. 

Homeward  with  the  rapture  that 
Beached  the  ark  on  Ararat. 

All  the  ways  of  war  and  weather 
We  have  worn  the  harness  leather. 

Days  with  never  cymbal-beat, 
Save  the  music  of  thy  feet. 

Nights  with  never  star  or  guide, 
Save  the  glimmer  of  thy  hide. 

Stained  with  all  the  tints  of  toil 
And  "variations  of  the  soil," 

Deeper  tinct  with  every  stain 

The  tireless  wine-press  wrings  from  pain, 

Not  the  frosted  hills  display 
Richer  dapple,  oh,  my  Gray  ! 

Not  the  vales  at  vintage  hold 
Riper  deeps  of  gloom  and  gold. 

Up  the  hill,  oh,  grace  and  speed, 
And  power  unplummeted  of  need  ! 


44 


MARTIAL  AND    CHIVALROUS  LYRICS. 

These  have  cheered  the  night  agone, 
These  are  musical  at  dawn. 

Ringing  to  the  bright'ning  dome, 
Climbing  upwards,  onwards,  home  / 

Far  above  the  cauldron's  spume, 
With  starry  cross  and  stainless  plume, 

We  have  shared  the  "corn"  and  heather, 
We  are  going  home  together. 

On  thy  crest  this  loving  sign, 

Be  my  Lord's  white  mark  on  mine  ! 


GRAY. 

SOMETHING  so  human-hearted 

In  a  tint  that  ever  lies 
Where  a  splendor  has  just  departed 

And  a  glory  is  yet  to  rise  ! 

Gray  in  the  solemn  gloaming, 

Gray  in  the  dawning  skies ; 
In  the  old  man's  crown  of  honor, 

In  the  little  maiden's  eyes. 

Gray  mists  o'er  the  meadows  brooding, 
Whence  the  world  must  draw  its  best ; 

Gray  gleams  in  the  churchyard  shadows, 
Where  all  the  world  would  "rest." 


HOLLAND.  45 

Gray  gloom  in  the  grand  cathedral, 

Where  the  "  Glorias"  are  poured, 
And,  with  angel  and  archangel, 

We  wait  the  coming  Lord. 

Silvery  gray  for  the  bridal, 

Leaden  gray  for  the  pall ; 
For  urn,  for  wreath,  for  life  and  death, 

Ever  the  Gray  for  all. 

Gray  in  the  very  sadness 

Of  ashes  and  sackcloth  ;  yea, 
While  our  raiment  of  beauty  and  gladness 

Tarries,  our  tears  shall  stay ; 
And  our  souls  shall  smile  through  their  sadness, 

And  our  hearts  shall  wear  the  Gray. 


HOLLAND. 

BRAVE  Holland  !  of  the  broad  sea  nursed, 
Where  the  blue  billows  roll  and  burst 
From  the  bleak,  bitter  north.     In  thee, 
Star-crowned  with  peace  and  liberty, 
We  hail  "  the  Venus  of  the  Sea !" 

The  heart  and  home  of  wealth  and  worth, 

The  Eden  glory  of  the  earth  ; 

A  sea  of  billowy  verdure  drest 

In  rippling  green,  with  lily  crest. 

In  all  our  woes  across  the  sea, 

Bright  Holland,  Georgia  cries  to  thee  ! 


46         MARTIAL  AND    CHIVALROUS  LYRICS. 

Scourged  by  a  more  than  bitter  tide, 
With  the  black  billows  howling  wide ; 
Wrecked  to  her  naked  soil  and  sky, 
Reft  of  her  all  but  memory  ! 
Dear  sister  of  like  sorrows,  we 
Turn  in  our  wasting  woes  to  thee  ! 

Of  old,  thy  virgin  liberty 

Returned,  a  vestal,  to  the  sea  ! 

And  ours  ?     Her  bleeding  feet  impress 

Again  the  savage  wilderness  ! 

Blest  if  the  desert's  depths  have  wrought 

For  Freedom  as  thy  deluge  fought ! 

Teach  us  to  front  the  tempest's  gloom 
With  the  long  waves  of  light  and  bloom ; 
To  plant,  where  flashed  the  flying  foam, 
The  constant  altar-fires  of  home, 
And  the  shrill  sea-blast's  wave  prolong 
In  shepherd's  bell  and  reaper's  song ! 
To  rear,  by  grace  of  grass  and  trees, 
Of  milky  herds  and  honey-bees, 
A  second  Holland  from  the  seas. 


GEORGIA.  47 


GEORGIA. 

BETWEEN  her  rivers  and  beside  the  sea, 

My  mother-land  !     What  fairer  land  can  be? 

The  lyric  rapture  in  her  leaping  rills, 
The  crown-imperial  on  her  purple  hills. 

Her  lips  are  pure  that  never  breathed  a  curse ; 
Her  hands  are  white  before  the  universe. 

Behold  the  witness  of  the  King  of  Peace 
Clear,  in  the  splendor  of  her  dew-lit  fleece. 

And  lo  !  the  midnight  of  her  shrouded  mine 
Garners  the  radiance  of  the  years  to  shine. 

Yea !   the  swart  Gnome  that  bides  his  time  below 
Shall  rise  at  last  in  full  regalia  glow  ! 

And  the  great  Alchemist  shall  teach  the  Sun 
That  Earth's  great  gloom  and   Life's  great  light  are 
one  ! 

Oh,  sweetest  souls  that  ever  rose  by  prayer 
White  from  the  furnace-dungeon  of  despair ! 

That  wrought  new  grace  from  battle's  chaos-mould, 
And  reared  new  shrines  from  ashes  not  yet  cold. 


48         MARTIAL  AND    CHIVALROUS  LYRICS. 

Not  cold  ! — from  flames  the  strangest  that  have  given 
From  all  this  world,  an  altar-smoke  to  Heaven  ! 

Crowned  on  the  cross,  above  high-fetter  line, 
They  smile  on  hate  with  Love's  own  smile  divine. 

Prouder  than  hills  that  plume  thy  star-ward  crest, 
Sweeter  than  dales  that  dimple  at  thy  breast. 

Richer  than  Rome  !  when  God's  great  chariot  rolls, 
Imperial  Georgia!  count  thy  children's  souls. 


THE    CONSTITUTION. 

"LE    ROI    EST    MORT  !" 

"  AWAKE  the  King  !"  the  warder  said  ; 
"The  night  is  past,  the  tempest  fled. 
Awake  the  King;  the  world  would  shine 
Once  more  beneath  his  eyes  benign." 

"  The  storm  that  rocked  our  castle's  base 
Brought  heavy  slumber  to  his  Grace, 
And  light  and  peace  and  laughing  skies 
Shall  wake  him — "  when  the  dead  arise. 

Ah  !  deadlier  than  the  tempest's  peal, 
In  coward  hands  the  traitor  steel  ! 
The  Lord's  anointed  they  that  cried 
"  All  hail !"  have  smitten,  that  he  died. 


ALEXANDER   HAMILTON  STEPHENS.         49 

They  drank  his  cup,  they  brake  his  bread, 
And  in  his  slumber  smote  him  dead, — 
His  loyal  Lords  ! — to  bear  through  time 
The  crimson  of  that  banner  crime  ! 


On  him  all  sacred  seals  were  set ; 
In  him  all  power  and  mercy  met  ; 
Dead  !  and  what  kings  shall  rise  and  reign 
Ere  we  behold  his  like  again  ! 


ALEXANDER  HAMILTON  STEPHENS. 

STONE    MOUNTAIN. 

FORGED  in  the  furnace  of  the  world's  mid-fire ; 
Smit  of  all  scourges  of  the  fierce  and  dire; 
Worn  of  all  waters ;  the  volcano's  core 
Enters  the  Heavens  at  last,  triumphant  evermore. 

Crowned  with  the  stars,  a  cenotaph  to  stand 
Till  the  last  flood  of  fire  shall  oversweep  the  land. 
Kindred  to  all  that,  clasped  by  sod  or  shroud, 
Kindles  the  crystal  that  shall  cleave  the  cloud. 

How  vile  to  this  the  tyrant-triumph  hid 
In  the  worn  Sphinx,  the  wasted  pyramid  ! 
How  poor  and  pale  all  pomps  the  world  has  known 
To  this  unblazoned  shaft  of  Georgian  stone  ! 
5 


5° 


MARTIAL  AND    CHIVALROUS  LYRICS. 


Whose  name  and  fame  shall  front  the  ages  with 
Thine  awful  grace,  imperial  monolith  ! 
With  fire  as  central  as  the  planet's  own, 
And  soul  as  steadfast  as  the  granite  stone? 

Our  Athos-Alexander,  carven  on 
The  unbowed  head  of  mourning  Macedon, 
With  crest  of  Memnon,  by  the  choral  seas, 
Hymettus-voiced,  with  silvery  symphonies. 

Kindred  to  all  that,  swathed  by  sod  or  shroud, 
Kindles  the  crystal  that  shall  cleave  the  cloud  ; 
Whose  mighty  work  salutes  the  sun  at  last, 
The  rock  cathedral  of  the  fiery  Past ! 

Shrining  the  princely  dust  with  sacramental  care, 
And  kindling  darkened  aisles  with  censer,  song,  and 

prayer ; 

Touching  old  banners  with  their  battle-glow, 
And  the  worn  bugles  till  their  triumphs  blow ; 
Lending  sweet  music  to  the  tears  that  shed 
The  tenderest  splendor  o'er  our  Freedom's  dead, 
And  clarion  clangors  to  the  starward  arch, 
Where  her  gray  cohorts  rally  to  the  march ; 
Blending  all  glories  of  the  arch  of  light, 
To  robe,  and  crown,  and  consecrate  the  Right  ! 

A  kingly  vigil,  where  enchantment  lies 
On  the  pale  lips  of  peerless  chivalries ! 
A  godlike  deed,  to  bid  these  charnel  gates 
Blaze  with  the  resurrection  of  the  States ! 


ALEXANDER  HAMILTON  STEPHENS.          5 

May  we  not  mate  the  mountain  and  the  man, — 
The  granite  dome  and  the  great  Georgian? 
Kindred  to  all  that,  clasped  by  sod  or  shroud, 
Kindles  the  crystal  that  shall  cleave  the  cloud. 

Their  pathos  one  ! — the  melancholy  grace 
Of  Sinai's  shadow  on  the  prophet's  face, 
When  the  lone  summit  of  the  thunders  saw 
The  broken  people  in  the  broken  law, 
And  the  last  splendor  of  the  lightning  fell 
On  shattered  tablets  and  lost  Israel ! 

One  in  their  grandeur !     Who  shall  bid  apart 

These  stalwart  coils  that  clasp  our  Georgia's  heart? 

Or  crown  this  majesty  that  meets  the  sky 

With  other  light  of  immortality 

Than  his,  whose  voice  in  Freedom's  name  hath  given 

From  all  this  earth  the  noblest  plea  to  Heaven  ? 


52          MARTIAL  AND   CHIVALROUS  LYRICS. 


''CORDELIA!    CORDELIA!" 

(IN    MEMORIAM,    APRIL    26,    1865.) 
TO  GENERAL  ROBERT  TOOMBS. 

THE  light  hath  lost  its  summer  tints, 
The  world  with  woe  hath  whitened  since 
The  shrouded  April,  long  ago, 
That  laid  our  Lily  in  the  snow ! 

The  star  that  trembled  down  the  west 
Returns  not  from  its  quiet  rest, 
And  if  the  dawn  awake  the  flowers, 
They  shine  for  other  eyes  than  ours  !. 

And  yet  while  grace  of  deed  and  thought 
Shall  linger  where  her  hands  have  wrought, 
We  see  the  April  of  her  eyes, 
And  wait  her  summer  to  arise. 

Twin-born  with  liberty,  she  died 
In  the  great  battle,  by  her  side, 
Mute,  save  the  proud  appeal  that  lies 
In  silent  lips  and  shrouded  eyes. 

The  white  palms  crossed  in  perfect  rest, 
The  Book  of  God  upon  her  breast, 
In  witness  of  the  good  she  sought, 
In  token  that  her  task  is  wrought. 


ARTHUR,   THE    GREAT  KING.  53 


ARTHUR,   THE    GREAT    KING. 

TO   JEFFERSON    DAVIS. 

THERE  be  of  warders  on  the  wall 
Have  heard  by  night  his  bugle-call, 
And  watchers  ere  the  dawn  unclose 
Whose  very  tears  are  tint  with  rose. 

As  on  some  widowed  neck  the  woe 
Of  mourning  veils  a  whiter  snow 
Than  April's  first  of  whiteness,  so 
Across  our  path  of  murk  and  wrath 
The  clouds  unclasp  at  times,  and  show 
The  vigil-gleam  at  "  Camelot !" 

His  regal  front  is  seamed  and  gaunt, 
His  kingly  curls  are  grizzled,  scant, 
His  war-steed  worn  to  Rosinante  ! 

There's  mist  upon  his  knightly  mail, 

And  dust  on  every  golden  scale 

Of  the  great  "  Dragon,"  crest  to  tail ! 

Like  moonlit  mist  on  midnight  snow, 
The  sun  of  battle  smoulders  low  ! 
Alas  !   the  King  at  Camelot ! 


54         MARTIAL  AND   CHIVALROUS  LYRICS. 

But  on  his  sword  nor  mould  nor  loss 
From  stainless  steel  to  starry  cross  ! 
Ye  wist,  ye  early  at  the  tomb, 
The  whiteness  that  is  like  his  plume  ! 
Beloved  of  the  morning-star, 
Your  eyes  have  seen  "  Excalibar  !" 


And  ye  that  in  the  temples  pray, 

Have  witnessed,  when  the  aisles  are  gray, 

A  sudden  rapture  cleave  the  pane 

Beyond  the  oriel's  glory-stain, 

That  lingered  in  the  holy  place, 

The  "  iris"  of  an  angel's  grace  ! 

Then  he  whose  head  it  kindled  on 

Shined  like  Uriel  of  the  sun  ! 

And  were  his  face  the  Parian  stone, 

And  were  his  smile  King  Arthur's  own, 

Of  all  that  met  his  kindling  eyes 

Not  one  should  marvel  did  he  rise  ! 

"These  little  ones  !" — these  lambs  that  bear 
The  dew-cross  of  our  Christ ;  His  care 
These  lilies,  more  than  Eden  blest, — 
"These  little  ones"  have  touched  his  hem, 
Have  looked  upon  his  diadem, 
Have  heard  his  footsteps  walk  with  them, 
And  bring  us,  from  the  shrouded  isle 
Where  his  great  glory  bides  the  while, 
The  very  sunshine  of  his  smile  ! 

And  One  I  know,  whose  sabre  shone 
The  battle's  eye-light  years  agone, 


THE   CAUCASIAN. 

Who  wears  upon  his  folded  hands 
The  welcome  of  the  angel  lands, 
And  bears  upon  his  smiling  lips 
The  seal  no  shadow  can  eclipse, 
Who  waits  me  as  the  days  expire 
With  Arthur 's  soul  of  love  and  fire  ! 


THE    CAUCASIAN. 

CHAINED  to  the  icy  peak, 
Rent  by  the  vulture's  beak, 

Scourged  of  the  bitter  brine ; 
Brother  of  Caucasus, 
The  gods  have  wrought  on  us 

Horrors  to  rival  thine  ! 

In  the  wilderness  wreck  we  stand, 
In  the  depths  of  the  desolate  land, 

To  our  dead  in  their  graves  we  cry 
"  Brothers  !  that  rest  in  peace 
In  the  land  where  the  wicked  cease, 

Is  it  better  to  live  or  die?" 

And  our  dead  from  their  graves  reply 
"The  Merciful  moves  on  high. 

The  arm  of  his  strength  is  nigh, 
In  the  sorrows  that  learn  of  Faith 
To  smile  in  the  eye  of  Death. 

It  is  braver  to  live  than  to  die  !" 


56         MARTIAL  AND    CHIVALROUS  LYRICS. 


UNDER    THE    WILLOWS. 

BRAVE  "ends"  may  consecrate  a  cruel  story, 

And  crown  a  dastard  deed  ; 
Brave  hearts  are  laurelled  with  eternal  glory 

That  held  another  creed. 

Who  knows  the  end  ?  or  in  what  record  written 

The  crowned  results  abide? 
The  volume  closed  not  with  an  Abel  smitten 

Or  Christ  the  crucified. 

How  poor  and  pale  from  yonder  heights  of  Heaven 

Our  Caesar's  pomp  appears 
To  those  who  wear  the  purple  robes  of  Stephen, 

Or  Mary's  crown  of  tears  ! 

So  let  us  watch,  a  single  pale  star  keeping 

Its  vigil  o'er  the  tide. 
No  truth  is  lost  for  which  the  true  are  weeping, 

Nor  dead  for  which  they  died. 


A7LANT1S.  57 


ATLANTIS. 

DOWN  in  the  sunless  deeps, 
Our  lost  Atlantis  sleeps  ! 

Not  as  she  sank  below 
The  Deluge  long  ago, 

A  star  for  the  bridal  drest, 
The  glory  of  all  the  West, 

But  white  in  her  shrouded  rest, 
And  a  chain  across  her  breast. 

Shall  we  weep  while  the  waters  roar, 
Or  work  with  the  madrepore, 

With  the  nursing  fires  below, 

And  the  cradling  earthquake's  throe, 

To  lift  to  the  light  again 
Atlantis,  from  shroud  and  chain 

Slow  dawning  out  of  her  grave, 
Slow  widening  over  the  wave, 

From  the  islet's  slender  spear 
To  the  bloom  of  a  hemisphere 


5  8          MARTIAL  AND    CHIVALROUS  LYRICS. 

Whose  hills  salute  the  morn 
With  the  pomp  of  palm  and  corn, 

Whose  verdurous  valleys  shine 
With  the  light  of  the  oil  and  wine? 

Ah  !  better  than  yonder  hind, 
Dazzled  by  triumph  blind, 

Whose  share  hath  furrowed  the  sod 
To  hillocks  that  cry  to  God, 

Whose  scythe,  as  it  sweeps  the  grain, 
Shines  with  an  evil  stain, 

To  toil  in  the  sunless  deeps, 
Where  our  lost  Atlantis  sleeps ; 

To  tarry  a  thousand  years 

Till  her  Angel  of  Light  appears. 


DIXIE.  59 


DIXIE. 


OH  !  Dixie's  homes  are  bonnie, 

And  Dixie's  hearts  are  true ; 
And  'twas  down  in  dear  old  Dixie 

Our  life's  first  breath  we  drew; 

And  there  our  last  we'd  sigh, 
And  for  Dixie,  dear  old  Dixie, 

We'll  lay  us  down  and  die. 

No  fairer  land  than  Dixie's 

Has  ever  seen  the  light ; 
No  braver  boys  than  Dixie's 

To  stand  for  Dixie's  right; 

With  hearts  so  true  and  high, 
And  for  Dixie,  dear  old  Dixie, 

To  lay  them  down  and  die. 

Oh  !  Dixie's  vales  are  sunny, 

And  Dixie's  hills  are  blue ; 
And  Dixie's  skies  are  bonnie, 

And  Dixie's  daughters,  too, 

As  stars  in  Dixie's  sky; 
And  for  Dixie,  dear  old  Dixie, 

We'd  lay  us  down  and  die. 


6o         MARTIAL  AND   CHIVALROUS  LYRICS. 

No  more  upon  the  mountain, 

No  longer  by  the  shore, — 
The  trumpet  song  of  Dixie 

Shall  shake  the  world  no  more  ; 
For  Dixie's  songs  are  o'er, 

Her  glory  gone  on  high, 
And  the  brave  who  bled  for  Dixie 

Have  laid  them  down  to  die. 


LOYAL. 

[TO    GENERAL    CLEBURNE.] 

THE  good  Lord  Douglas — dead  of  old- 

In  his  last  journeying 
Wore  at  his  heart,  encased  in  gold, 

The  heart  of  Bruce,  his  king, 

Through  Paynim  lands  to  Palestine — 
For  so  his  troth  was  plight — 

To  lay  that  gold  on  Christ  his  shrine, 
Let  fall  what  peril  might. 

By  night  and  day,  a  weary  way 

Of  vigil  and  of  fight, 
Where  never  rescue  came  by  day, 

Nor  ever  rest  by  night. 

And  one  by  one  the  valiant  spears 
Were  smitten  from  his  side, 


LOYAL.  6 1 

And  one  by  one"  the  bitter  tears 
Fell  for  the  brave  that  died ; 

Till  fierce  and  black  around  his  track 

He  saw  the  combat  close, 
And  counted  but  the  single  sword 

Against  uncounted  foes. 

He  drew  the  casket  from  his  breast, 

He  bared  his  solemn  brow  ! 
Oh,  foremost  of  the  kingliest ! 

Go  "first  in  battle"  now! 

Where  leads  my  Lord  of  Bruce,  the  sword 

Of  Douglas  shall  not  stay  ! 
Forward  !     We  meet  at  Christ  His  feet 

In  Paradise,  to-day ! 

The  casket  flashed  \  the  battle  clashed, 

Thundered,  and  rolled  away  ; 
And  dead  above  the  heart  of  Bruce 

The  heart  of  Douglas  lay  ! 

Loyal !     Methinks  the  antique  mould 

Is  lost,  or  theirs  alone 
Who  sheltered  Freedom's  heart  of  gold, 

Like  Douglas,  with  their  own  ! 


62          MARTIAL   AND    CHIVALROUS  LYRICS. 


THE    HIELAND    LASS    AT   LUCKNOW. 

"  DINNA    YE    HEAR   THE    PIBROCH?" 

NOT  alone,  not  alone  upon  Lucknow's  moan 

The  midnight  of  blackness  fell ; 
Not  alone,  not  alone  by  her  shattered  stone, 

Stood  Sorrow,  the  sentinel. 
Not  a  heart  but  beat  to  her  watcher's  feet, 

Under  that  awful  sky, 
And  ne'er  a  hearth  on  the  darkened  earth 

But  blazed  at  the  slogan's  cry. 

For  the  Campbells  came  like  the  rush  of  flame, 

With  that  clamor  so  wild  and  high, 
That  its  clarion  breath  in  the  ears  of  Death 

Might  have  trembled  with  victory. 
Here's  a  brimming  can  to  the  Highlandman, 

And  the  Bengal  bolt  he  hurled  ! 
Here's  a  brimming  glass  to  the  Hieland  lass 

Who  echoed  it  round  the  world  ! 


"HONOR    THE   BRAVE."  63 


"HONOR    THE    BRAVE." 

UP  in  the  Indian  hills 

Of  the  Cutchee  tribe  'tis  said 

That  when  a  chieftain  dies 

They  bind  his  wrist  with  thread  : 

Green  for  the  very  brave ; 
But  for  the  bravest,  red. 

One  time  in  Indian  wars, 

A  squad  of  Englishmen 
Charged  sixty  Cutcheears 

So  valiantly  that,  when 
The  fight  was  done,  of  ten,  not  one 

Ever  came  back  again. 

Long  after,  when  the  winds 
Their  skeletons  had  kissed,    * 

A  squad  of  Englishmen 

Looked  up  their  missing  list, 

And  found  them  dead,  with  each  a  thread 
Of  scarlet  on  his  wrist. 


64         MARTIAL  AND    CHIVALROUS  LYRICS. 


BATTLE    FOR    THE    RIGHT. 

"  Oh  !  for  the  battle  where  all  in  all 
Is  placed  on  the  perilous  cast." 

"  Marks  of  Burhamvllle." 

THEN  smite,  if  thy  foes  are  'round  thee, 

And  thou  battiest  for  the  right ; 
Though  the  laurel  hath  ne'er  crowned  thee, 

Thou  art  victor  if  thou  smite  ! 
But  not  in  thy  dreams  Elysian 

Thou  speedest  the  battle  on, 
Not  in  the  sleeper's  vision 

Is  the  victory  lost  or  won. 

Each  blow  for  the  truth  thou  givest 

Is  a  triumph  in  the  war, 
Each  hour  that  thou  tntly  livest 

Thou  art  truly  Conqueror. 
Each  night  of  thy  sinless  slumber 

That  hails  the  setting  sun, 
Thy  destiny  shall  number 

As  one  brave  victory  won. 


SANS   CHANGE."  65 


"SANS    CHANGE." 

FROM   THE    SEAL-RING    OF   BISHOP    B . 

AN  earl  of  England  hath  as  "crest" 
An  Infant  in  an  Eagle's  nest ; 

And  (hid  to  heraldry)  the  strange 
Yet  simple  legend,  "Without  change." 

No  herald  ;  yet  I  hold  amiss 
The  reading  that  traverses  this. 

No  doubt  the  Eagle  caught  away 
The  Infant  from  its  nurse  that  day, 

And  felt  new  softness  at  the  touch, 
Pervade  his  fiery  spirit ;  much 

As  might  the  Lion  that  relents, 
A  Lamb,  to  Una's  innocence. 

And  well,  methinks,  the  nursling  might 
From  the  stern  rapture  of  that  flight 

Some  token  of  the  eyrie  bring 
In  dauntless  eye  and  tireless  wing ; 
6* 


66         MARTIAL  AND    CHIVALROUS  LYRICS. 

And  so  through  annals  richly  stored, 
Of  gown,  of  mitre,  and  of  sword, 

Transmit,  "unchanged,"  to  all  his  race 
The  Eagle's  fire,  the  Infant's  grace. 


AGONISTES. 

BETWEEN  the  pillars  let  him  stand  ! 
The  fireless  eyes,  the  fettered  hand, 
The  Lion-Fox  that  vexed  the  land  ! 

By  Baal !  but  the  sport  was  rare 
To  take  the  cunning  in  our  snare, 
The  Lion,  by  his  yellow  hair ! 

The  world  grows  weary  of  the  jest, 
And  there  are  shadows  in  the  west ; 
Between  the  pillars  let  him  rest ! 

Perhaps  to  dream,  as  captives  will, 
That  on  Philistia's  sacred  hill 
His  feet  of  triumph  trample  still. 

To-morrow, — be  the  darkness  short  !- 
Refreshed  in  rage,  our  gentle  court 
Shall  bait  the  Titan  for  our  sport  ! 

So  Peace,  from  pinnacle  to  porch, 
With  naked  bone  or  blazing  torch 
Never  more  to  smite  or  scorch  ! 


DIOGENES.  67 

And  there  was  peace ;  and  we  have  read 
The  simple  prayer  the  captive  said, 
The  blind  man  as  he  bowed  his  head ; 

And  when  the  voice  of  other  wail 
Is  still  in  story,  let  the  tale 
Of  Agonistes  turn  us  pale. 


DIOGENES. 

HE  may  have  been  a  worthy  wight 
Who  mocked  the  sun  with  candle-light, 

As  seeking  in  that  foolish  way, 
An  honest  man  in  open  day  ; 

But  who  has  heard  of  one  of  these 
Revealed  unto  Diogenes? 

I  think  his  lanthorn  lacked  alone 
Some  honest  motions  of  his  own  ! 

The  man  with  little  love  shall  find 
But  little  loving  in  mankind ; 

And  one  of  feeble  honor  can 

By  no  means  find  an  honest  man  ! 

To  win  the  Indies'  wealth,  lay  out 
The  Indies'  worth,  or  thereabout. 


68          MARTIAL  AND    CHIVALROUS  LYRICS. 


"BARRY"    OF    ST.    BERNARD. 

TWELVE  thousand  feet,  straight  up  the  sky  ! 

Six  thousand  years  of  sleet ! 
Strange  eyrie  of  humanity, 

With  Europe  at  its  feet ! 

How  many  a  year  the  glacier, 

Slow  gliding,  shall  not  tell, 
Since  storms  that  launch  the  avalanche 

Have  shouted  as  it  fell. 
There  war's  records  rest  in  cloven  crest 

And  splintered  pinnacle. 

How  many  years,  in  deadliest  wrath 

Of  Roman  and  of  Frank, 
The  red  high-tide  of  murder  hath 

Smitten  this  mountain's  flank  ! 

And  this  poor  dog,  his  kennel,  ice, — 
Ringed  by  the  double  strife, — 

In  his  sublime  self-sacrifice 

Stands  staunch  for  human  life  ! 

Lead  out  your  kings  !  an  even  start 

For  Glory's  last  reward  ! 
Your  Hannibal,  your  Bonaparte, 

Your  Caesar,  evil-starred, 
And  here's  my  "vote,"  with  all  my  heart, 

For  "Barry"  of  Bernard. 


THE   PRISONER  AT  GLATZ.  69 

Climb  the  fierce  legions  as  of  old 

Storm  swept  and  battle  riven  ! 
And  as  the  foremost  hearts  fall  cold 
The  Alps,  by  all  their  height,  uphold 

A  dog,  the  nearest  Heaven  ! 


THE    PRISONER    AT    GLATZ. 

FROM  THE  LIFE  OF  FREDERICK  WILLIAM  III.,  OF  PRUSSIA. 

One  in  his  palace  :    One  at  the  bars 
Of  a  dungeon,  under  the  Alpine  stars ; 
Doomed  !  and  never  hath  dungeon's  scope 
Closed  on  a  darker  farewell  to  hope. 

Years  !  and  ever  that  icy  gleam  ; 
Years  !  and  only  the  eagle's  scream, 
Piercing  the  storm  in  its  sunward  flight, 
Hath  cheered  his  soul  at  that  awful  height. 

He  hath  barred  his  soul  at  a  deadlier  height 
With  icier  bonds,  but  they  melt  to-night. 

Not  for  the  hopes  that  have  vanished  dim  ; 

Not  for  the  pang  of  the  fettered  limb ; 

Other  than  anguish  has  melted  him, 

That  fell  with  a  light  from  the  starry  dome 

On  a  single  line  in  an  ancient  tome, 

"  In  the  time  of  thy  trouble,  call  thou  on  Me ; 

And,  lo  !  my  love  shall  deliver  thee!" 

And  his  soul  is  bowed  like  a  bended  knee. 


MARTIAL  AND    CHIVALROUS  LYRICS. 

And  his  tears  are  wept  from  a  heart  as  full 
As  the  night  of  stars,  with  the  beautiful 
Child-like  trust  in  the  Merciful. 

One  in  his  palace — the  balm  of  night, 

With  the  beautiful  sleep,  hath  fled  his  sight, 

Sick  and  faint  with  the  woe  and  weight 

Of  the  golden  thorns  that  crown  the  great — 

Moans,  as  the  stricken  who  moan  for  light 

In  the  dark  "  mid-watch,"  and  at  dawn,  for  night 

"All  my  realm  for  the  sweet  release 

From  a  monarch's  pain  to  a  peasant's  peace  !" 

A  soft  step  stole  through  the  silken  gloom, 
A  sweet  voice  read  from  "ancient  tome" — 
Sweeter  sounds  may  not  lull  the  sense — 
Of  the  pitying  love  and  the  innocence 
Of  Christ ;  and  there  came  the  sweep 
Of  angel  pinions,  and  brought  him  sleep  ! 

One  in  his  palace,  the  dawn  astir, 
Saith  to  his  sweet-voiced  Comforter : 

"  All  my  realm  by  the  east  and  west, 

All  my  glory,  hath  never  blessed 

My  soul  like  this  great  crown-jewel  Rest  / 

"Tell  me  now  of  the  heaviest  woe 

That  dwells  to-day  with  my  deadliest  foe ; 

"  For,  as  the  Lord  hath  regarded  me, 
My  soul  would  pardon  mine  enemy." 


"FELIX."  71 

And  the  soft  voice  answered,  "The  sorrow  that's 
Under  the  icy  stars,  at  Glatz  /' ' 

Aye  !     There  are  pinions  of  farther  flight 
Than  the  eagle's  scream  or  the  Alpine  height 
To  answer  the  captive's  call  to-night ! 

Mercy  ! — waiting,  through  #//our  years, — 
Waiting  one  signal,  one  summons,  Tears  / 


"FELIX." 

THERE  is  an  ancient  moral, 
Whose  pith  I  thus  convey, — 

Who  slumbers  on  his  laurel 
Was  vanquished  yesterday. 

Though  greener  fields  may  brighten 
Than  yet  the  sun  hath  known ; 

Though  whiter  harvests  whiten 
Than  ever  seed  were  sown  ; 

Above  the  breast  of  summer, 
The  thunder-bolt  may  burst ; 

And  around  the  sheaves  of  harvest 
The  winter  gales  are  nursed. 

Life's  loftiest  triumph  trembles 
Beneath  the  lightest  march, — 

Till  Death,  that  carves  the  keystone 
Writes  FELIX  on  the  arch. 


SONGS  OF  HOME. 


A    SONG    FOR    THE    ASKING. 

(TO    R.    N.    T.) 

A  SONG  !     What  songs  have  died 

Upon  the  earth, 
Voices  of  Love  and  Pride — 

Of  Tears  and  Mirth? 
Fading  as  hearts  forget, 

As  shadows  flee  ! 
Vain  is  the  voice  of  song, 
And  yet 
I  sing  to  thee  ! 

A  song  !     What  ocean  shell 

Were  silent  long, 
If  in  thy  touch  might  dwell 

Its  all  of  song? 
A  song  ?     Then  near  my  heart 

Thy  cheek  must  be, 
For,  like  the  shell,  it  sings — 
Sweet  Heart — 
To  Thee,  of  Thee  ! 


75 


76  SOA'GS   OF  HOME. 


TO    ROSALIE. 

How  shall  I  sing  to  thee? 
What  shall  the  measure  be, 
Star  of  my  reverie, 
Loveliest  Rosalie, 

Purest  of  Pearls? 
Smooth  as  thy  forehead  fair? 
Sweet  as  thine  eyelids  are? 

Soft  as  thy  curls  ? 

As  from  the  starry  vines 
Of  the  white  jessamines, 
When  the  first  planet  shines, 

Only  at  even, 
Incense,  the  wanton  day 
Vainly  would  woo  away, 
Freed  from  the  bending  spray, 

Rises  to  Heaven. 

As  in  the  forest  dim, 
Cradled  in  mossy  rim, 
Murmurs  the  fountain's  hymn, 

Seeking  no  river ; 
Lulling  the  lily's  sleep, 
Watching  the  shadows  creep, 

And  the  stars  quiver ; 
Such  should  my  measure  be, 


AN  APRIL   MORNING.  77 

Such  were  my  minstrelsie, 
Maid  of  my  reverie 
Sacred  and  sweet  to  thee, 
Or  silent  forever. 


AN    APRIL    MORNING. 

A  DEEPER  azure  where  the  clouds  are  flying 

Along  the  upper  sky, 
A  softer  shadow  where  the  leaves  are  lying 

Our  forest  pathway  by, 
A  sweeter  murmur  in  the  south  winds  sighing, 

Tell  us  the  spring  is  nigh. 

The  blue-bird  flits,  and  coos  the  ring-dove  tender 

Amid  the  young  green  leaves ; 
Mansions  of  mist  and  silver,  white  and  slender, 

The  shy  wood-spider  weaves  ; 
Swingeth  the  swallow  to  his  old  home  under 

The  unforgotten  eaves. 

Its  bridal  wreaths,  with  starry  gems  of  yellow, 

The  jasmine's  stores  unfold, 
Adovvn  the  tresses  of  the  trembling  willow 

Dropping  its  bells  of  gold  ; 
Fit  tracery  to  deck  the  perfumed  pillow, 

Where  Love's  young  dreams  are  told. 

A  thousand  forms,  like  frolic  children  hiding, 
Challenge  the  laughing  showers, 


7  8  SOA'GS   OF  HOME. 

Watching  the  flight  of  pearly  clouds  and  chiding 

The  treasure-laden  hours ; 
A  thousand  forms  of  untold  beauty  biding 

Amid  the  unborn  flowers. 

A  thousand  forms,  and  not  in  nature  only, 

The  warm  spring  showers  unfold, 
Another  mission,  pure  and  calm  and  holy, 

The  voice  of  spring  has  told, 
Waking  some  joy  in  souls  long  sad  and  lonely, 

Some  hope  in  hearts  long  cold. 

Some  light  from  sunlight  may  our  sadness  borrow, 
Some  strength  from  bright  young  wings, 

Some  hope  from  brightening  seasons,  when  each  morrow 
A  lovelier  verdure  brings  ; 

Some  softened  shadow  of  remembered  sorrow 
From  the  calm  depths  of  springs. 

Blend  thy  blest  visions  with  the  sleep  that  cumbers 

The  dull,  cold  earth  so  long; 
Bring  bloom  and  fragrance  to  the  flow'ret's  slumbers, 

And  bid  our  hearts  be  strong ; 
Breathe  thine  own  music  through  our  spirit's  numbers, 

Season  of  light  and  song. 


TWILIGHT  ON  "  TORCH  HILL."  79 


TWILIGHT    ON    "TORCH    HILL." 

IT  is  eve  at  our  eyrie ;  the  river 
Falls  dim  in  its  tremulous  gaze; 

There's  a  mantle  of  mist  and  the  quiver 
Of  stars  through  the  violet  haze. 

Soft  twilight !   the  far  silent  city 
Sleeps,  veiled  in  the  valley  beneath, 

Eclipsed  by  the  flash  of  this  pretty 

Bright  "ruby-throat"*  here  on  his  wreath. 

Shall  I  try,  ere  the  daylight  is  over, 
So  high  from  its  dust  and  its  din, 

How  much  of  a  "  town"  I  can  cover 
With  the  leaf  of  a  jessamine? 

All  the  life  and  the  light  of  the  city 
Shall  I  daintily  hide  from  my  sight, 

With  its  sorrow  that  weeps,  and  the  pity 
That  walks  with  the  angels  to-night? 

Sweet  mercies  that  shadow  me  !     Never  ! 

Lest  the  soul  in  my  body  should  die, 
Ere  the  sparkle  fades  out  of  the  river, 

Or  the  light  from  the  violet  sky. 

*  The  ruby-throated  humming-bird,  avant-courier  of  the  stars. 


80  SONGS   OF  HOME. 


DO   THEY   MISS   ME   AT   HOME?' 

uThe  world  is  not  all  so  dark 
But  a  smile  can  make  it  sweet." 

TENNYSON. 

A  QUESTION  that  betrays 
The  answer  ere  it  come, 

For  that  "  I  miss"  conveys 
That  I  am  missed  at  home. 

For  so  the  world  is  full 
Of  call  that  answers  call, 

Along  the  wires  that  pull 
Both  ways  or  not  at  all. 


AMONG    THE  BIRDS.  8 1 


AMONG    THE    BIRDS. 

WE  built  a  nest  among  the  birds 

Now  many  Mays  ago  ; 
And  we  have  heard  a  many  a  word 

That  sang,  by  building  so. 

And  times  when  dew  is  on  the  day, 

And  starlight  in  the  trees, 
We  meet  and  warn  the  mists  away 

With  little  lays  like  these : 

A  birdie  tells  of  dimpled  dells 
That  blushed  in  far-off  springs ; 

And  many  an  April  blooms  and  thrills 
With  rapture  while  she  sings. 

A  birdie  coos  of  light  and  shade 
The  summers  brought  our  nest, 

Of  violets  born,  and  lilies  laid 
Where  lilies  love  to  rest. 

A  birdie  carols  :   Day's  decline 
Restores  the  dawn's  caress ; 

And  autumn  pours  a  richer  wine 
Than  April's  tenderness. 


82  SONGS   OF  HOME. 

A  birdie  says :   The  bitter  days 

May  blow  till  they  expire ; 
The  winds  but  raise  our  censer  blaze 

And  waft  its  incense  higher  ! 

The  birdies  sing :  The  bright  shells  bring 

No  song  from  all  the  sea ; 
The  close  cheek  and  the  clasping  hand 

Make  life's  whole  melody. 


"IN    MAMRE." 

Do  you  ever  think  when  your  Eden-tree 

Is  flourishing  wide  and  green, 
With  friendships  thicker  than  fruits  of  gold, 

And  love  with  its  flowers  between, 
How  many  beautiful  souls  may  be 

That  your  soul  hath  never  seen  ? 
And  how  much  "loving"  your  heart  could  hold 
Were  the  blossoms  silver,  the  apples  gold, 

And  your  heart  an  evergreen  ? 

In  a  world  so  wide  there  are  nooks  to  hide, 

And  shadows  to  veil  the  sweet ; 
And  there  are  the  wise  with  unseeing  eyes, 

And  the  swift  with  unheeding  feet. 
Happier  we,  were  our  Eden-tree 

A  tent  in  the  desert's  heat, 
Who  hold  that  the  very  angel  who  spoke 


ID  YL.  83 

To  Abraham,  under  the  Mamre  oak, 
May  be  the  next  we  meet ! 

'Tis  a  pleasant  thought  at  the  eventide, 

When  a  glory  looks  down  on  our  prayers, 
That  we  have  not  mocked  in  the  days  of  our  pride 
The  meanest  pilgrim  whose  dust  may  hide 

An  "angel  unawares  !" 
And  a  beautiful  hope,  as  the  night  unrolls 

Her  raiment  of  rest  serene, 
That  we  are  nearer  the  beautiful  souls 

That  our  souls  have  never  seen. 


IDYL. 

(TO    M.    N.    T.) 

I. 

A  VISION  which  I  had  of  late, 
By  the  orchard's  lattice  gate, 
Let  this  simple  song  relate  ! 

Vision  of  a  little  girl, 

With  a  cheek  of  peach  and  pearl, 

And  the  promise  of  a  curl ! 

Daintily  in  white  arrayed, 
Borne  by  Ethiopian  maid, 
Blending  well  with  light  and  shade. 


84  SONGS   OF  HOME. 

Dimpled  hand  on  dusky  neck, 
Ebony  with  silver  fleck, 
'Twixt  a  turban  and  a  check  ! 

By  the  cedar's  scented  gloom, 

By  the  violet's  perfume, 

By  the  jasmine's  golden  bloom, 

By  the  graceful  hawthorn  tree, 
By  the  stately  hickory, 
Pausing  for  a  kiss  from  me  ! 

Melting  where  the  sunlight  shines, 
On  the  blossomed  nectarines, 
Melting  down  the  orchard  lines. 


II. 

Melts,  but  bids  before  me  rise 
A  wiser  pair  of  wider  eyes, 
In  a  wide  world  of  surprise, 

And  a  world  of  rapture  swells 
In  her  accent  as  she  tells 
All  the  legends  of  our  dells. 

Where  the  wild  bee  builds  her  cells, 
Where  the  humming-birdie  dwells, 
Where  the  squirrel  drops  the  shells ! 

Voice,  by  soul  of  music  stirred, 
Eloquent  in  tone  and  word, 
Mocks  the  very  mocking-bird. 


IDYL. 

And  she  knows  the  way  of  fruit, 
All  the  tricks  of  bud  and  shoot, 
All  the  secrets  of  the  root. 

Much  that  wiser  folk  call  weeds 
Her  wide  horticulture  heeds ; 
Boundless  her  delight  in  seeds. 

Leave  her  to  her  slender  hoe, 
Le.t  the  seasons  come  and  go, 
Let  the  flowers  and  maiden  grow. 

III. 

Another  Presence  !  bright,  yet  pure, 
With  mien  more  modest  than  demure. 
Not  our  little  maiden,  sure  ? 

Yes  !  by  dimpled  cheek  and  chin, 
Violet  eyes,  and  velvet  skin, 
Tis  our  "  Summer-child"  again  ! 

'Mid  the  roses  she  hath  wrought — 

'Mid  the  lilies  till  she  caught 

Health  and  grace  in  form  and  thought. 

Greet  her,  all  ye  clustered  blooms  ! 
Apples,  peaches,  pears,  and  plums, 
Greet  your  sweetest  as  she  comes  ! 

By  the  cedar's  scented  breath, 
By  the  violets  underneath, 
By  the  jasmine's  golden  wreath. 
8 


86  SONGS   OF  HOME. 

Crown  her  with  your  fragrant  hands, 
All  bright  things  from  all  bright  lands, 
Crown  your  brightest,  where  she  stands, 

By  the  graceful  hawthorn  tree, 
By  the  stately  hickory, 
Pausing  for  a  kiss  from  me. 


TO    THE    LITTLE    ROSALIE. 

(MRS.    ROBERT    OBER.) 

A  LITTLE  leaf  from  the  rose's  heart, 

A  little  drop  of  pearl, 
To  write  a  little  bit  of  a  rhyme 

For  a  little  bit  of  a  girl ! 
Bright  as  a  little  humming-bird, 

Sweet  as  a  honey-bee, 
That  all  who  sing  to  the  flowers  may  sing 

To  the  little  Rosalie ! 

The  violet's  dyes  are  in  her  eyes, 

Its  softest  velvet  in 
The  dimples,  the  dimples  about  her  cheeks, 

The  dimple  upon  her  chin  ! 
Ah  !  well  of  the  little  humming-bird, 

Ah  !  well  of  the  little  bee, 
To  sing,  to  sing  to  as  sweet  a  thing 

As  the  little  Rosalie  ! 


"MOTHER'S    WORK."  87 

We  think,  we  think  of  the  star  ward  palms 

Over  the  Orient  seas, 
We  drink,  we  drink  of  the  blended  balms 

From  the  bright  Hesperides. 
We  ask,  we  ask  of  the  golden  hours, 

Of  blossom,  and  bird,  and  tree, 
A  little  lyric  of  stars  and  flowers 

For  the  little  Rosalie  ! 


"MOTHER'S    WORK." 

DARNING  stockings 
For  restless  feet, 
Scrubbing  faces 
To  lily-sweet ! 
Teaching  Bible 

And  catechism, 
Soothing  bruises 

And  healing  schism. 

Smooth  and  smoother, 

Linger  nor  jerk ; 
That's  our  mother — 
The  woman's  work  ! 

Raising  roses, 

Burying  smarts, 
Hiving  sunshine 

Under  our  hearts  ! 


88  SONGS   OF  HOME. 

Bravest  spirit 

Beneath  the  dome  ! 
Dastards  falter 

When  she  says  "  Come  !" 
Smooth  and  smoother, 

11  Nor  haste  nor  rest !" 
Beautiful  mother, 
Whom  God  hath  blest. 

Tender,  most  tender  ! 

Child,  take  heed  ! 
Rare  her  splendor 

Of  thought  and  deed. 
Mild  as  moonlight 
In  softest  quiver, 
To  shine  with  the  stars 
Forever  and  ever ! 

Smooth  and  smoother — 

When  life  hath  flown — 
The  wings  of  "  Mother" 
Still  woo  our  own. 


GROUP   OF  DUCKLINGS.  89 


GROUP    OF    DUCKLINGS. 

DUCKLINGS,  six  of  the  downiest 

That  a  duck  could  hatch  if  she  did  her  best, 

Or  a  painter  paint  at  his  creamiest. 

Of  the  richest  and  roliest-poliest ; 

First  choice  Frank's  !  and  the  present  quest 

Of  Frank's  forefinger  "the  prettiest !" 

Round  and  round,  as  a  hawk  that  eyes 
Ducklings,  six  of  the  dumpling  size ; 
Each  so  suitable — still  she  flies. 

Ducklings,  six,  and  one  for  dinner ! 
But  which?  so  hovers  the  dainty  sinner, 
Nor  fills  the  hollow  that  acheth  in  her. 

"  This  is  the  prettiest — brownie-white  ! 
Except  this  yellow  one  on  the  right — 
I  mean  the  left — with  a  fly  in  sight." 

"The  one  that  scampers!     The  one  that's  still! 
The  one  afloat,  with  dripping  bill. 
Prettiest,  washed  and  had  his  fill ! 
But  hungry  Top-knot's  prettier  still !" 

"  This  one  !  after  the  bug.     The  other, 
Watching  at  once  the  bug  and  his  brother !" 
"  Which  is  the  prettiest  ?"     "Ask  their  mother!' 
8* 


9° 


SOJVGS   OF  HOME. 

Puzzled  Frank  !   I  know  a  nest, 

And  a  mother  too  of  the  wisest,  best, 

Who  could  not  tell,  and  who  would  not  test, 

For  the  wide  world  at  its  happiest, 

Which  of  her  d — arlings  she  loves  the  best. 


"WHIPPOORWILL." 

WHIP  POOR  WILL  !     Was  there  ever  heard 

Such  a  blood-thirsty,  slanderous,  scandalous  bird  ! 

Under  the  window  so  slyly  to  creep, 

And  whistle  ''come  whip  him"  while  Will's  asleep. 

It's  a  bird  of  darkness,  and  not  of  day, 

That  whistles  a  hint  that  he  dare  not  say. 

Whip  Poor  Will  !     Why,  what  has  he  done  ? 

Has  he  found  your  eggs,  ma'am,  and  broken  one? 

Has  he  torn  his  jacket,  or  fought  at  play, 

Or  missed  his  lesson,  or  ran  away, 

Or  broke  a  tumbler,  or  scratched  the  chairs, 

Or  choked  at  table,  or  spoke  at  prayers? 

No,'  Willie's  a  boy  that's  nice  and  neat, 
And  Willie's  a  boy  that's  bright  and  sweet ; 
He's  quiet  at  home  and  he's  quick  at  school, 
And  he  never  breaks,  if  he  knows,  the  rule ; 
And  I  really  think  it  were  wondrous  silly 
For  nothing  at  all  to  whip  poor  Willie  ! 


THE   ECHO   STORY. 

But,  Whippoorwill,  if  you've  really  seen 

Another  Willie  that's  bad  and  mean, 

And  you  think  you  ought,  and  think  'twill  "pay. 

To  whip  poor  Willie,  why  whip  away. 

And  so  good-by  to  your  birdship  till 

There's  more  occasion  to  whip  our  Will ! 


91 


THE    ECHO    STORY. 

THIS  is  a  rhyme  that  our  poet  writ, 

Sitting  at  peace  one  day, 
With  his  warring  done,  and  his  rifle-gun 

Bracketted  away. 

A  little  lad  in  the  curly  grace 

Of  summers  that  numbered  three, 

With  a  wrathful  trace  on  his  rosy  face, 
Stood  at  his  mother's  knee. 

"  Mother,  get  me  a  rifle-gun, 

With  a  bayonet  keen  and  bright ; 

There's  a  fellow  that  hides  in  the  hills  in  front, 
And  him  I  am  bound  to  fight ! 

"A  fellow  that  hoots  like  a  hooting  owl, 

And  mocks  like  a  mocking-bird  ; 
A  rascal  that  calls  me  the  meanest  names 

That  ever  a  fellow  heard. 


92  SO  ACS   OF  HOME. 

"Now,  mother,  get  me  a  rifle-gun, 

And  a  jacket  of  blue  or  gray, 
And  I  think  you'll  hear  of  the  prettiest  fight, 

Or  the  funniest  run-away  !" 

And  the  mother,  parting  the  sunny  curls, 

Smiled  in  the  earnest  eyes : 
"  I  know  the  lad  ;  he's  of  Johnny's  age, 

And  just  about  Johnny's  size. 

"  He'll  never  run  from  your  rifle-gun  ; 

We'll  try  him  another  way. 
Speak  lovingly  to  that  lad,  my  son, 

And  hear  what  he  has  to  say." 

Soon,  in  the  porch  that  faced  the  hills, 
They  stood  in  the  waning  light, 

And  a  voice  replied  to  the  voice  that  cried, 
"Johnny,  my  dear,  good-night !" 

And  Johnny's  smile,  as  he  turned  away, 

Was  audible,  sweet,  and  clear; 
And  it  was  a  rather  good  thing  to  say, 

And  a  very  good  thing  to  hear. 

And  I  hope  the  world  as  it  grows  in  grace 

Will  learn  how  a  war  is  won  ; 
That  Love  is  still  the  invincible, — 

And  bracket  its  rifle-gun. 


POETA   IN  RURE. 


POETA    IN    RURE. 

Now,  doth  it  give  the  corn  a  start, 
Or  cause  the  cotton  grow  ? 

They  mock  the  minstrel's  idle  art 
My  neighbors  of  the  hoe ; 

With  rumble  of  the  tumble  cart, 
And  lyric  of  "  Gee-Whoa  !" 

Their  legends  are  of  doughty  teams, 

Of  oxen  and  of  sheep ; 
I  hear  them  driving  in  their  dreams 

And  counting  in  their  sleep. 

And  yet  their  wit  is  rich  in  speech, 

The  wisest,  uninspired ; 
Their  limbs  unto  the  fiddle  screech 

Right  rhythmically  wired. 

Within  these  fields  of  care  and  strife 
A  man  may  come,  no  doubt, 

To  be  a  poet,  all  his  life, 
And  never  find  it  out. 

To  dwell  among  his  woolly  flocks, 
His  herds  of  hoof  and  horn, 

Less  happy  than  the  licensed  "  ox 
That  treadeth  out  the  corn  !" 


94  SONGS   OF  HOME. 

To  hold  the  sky  in  all  its  scope 

As  one  great  weather-sign, 
To  toil  athwart  the  vineyard's  slope 

And  never  taste  the  wine  ! 

The  day  must  have  its  dinner-gong, 

The  nation  must  be  fed, 
Yet  one  will  weary  of  a  song 

With  one  sole  burden,  bread. 

And  one  must  count  his  labor  "  naught," 

His  harvest  quite  in  vain, 
Who  reared  no  blossom  when  he  wrought 

With  summer  on  the  plain, 
No  garland  of  a  golden  thought 

To  glorify  his  grain. 


THE    FLOWERS. 

A  BLESSING  on  the  broad  bright  lands, 
Whose  children  come  to  ours, 

And  lead  us  with  their  fragrant  hands 
Around  the  World  of  Flowers. 

No  dust  upon  our  sandalled  feet, 

As  they  who  go  to  find 
In  other  lands  a  flower  as  sweet 

As  one  they  left  behind. 


THE   FLOWERS.       m  95 

With  them  our  thoughts  all  journeys  take, 

With  them  our  fancies  roam, 
And  ever  when  we  will  we  wake 

And  find  ourselves  at  home. 

They  bid  the  green  oasis  creep 

Around  the  desert  wells ; 
They  sound  on  many  a  cedared  steep 

The  sweet  pagoda  bells. 

They  wake  for  us  the  breath  and  bloom 

Where  soft  Circassia  smiles; 
They  veil  beneath  their  tender  bloom 

The  maidens  of  the  Isles. 

All  times  and  climes  they  journey  through, 

Until  their  pathway  lies 
Beyond  the  gates  of  Morning,  to 

The  walks  of  Paradise. 

And  many  an  angel  of  the  earth 

Their  upward  path  hath  trod, 
Gone  from  our  garden  gateways  forth 

Into  the  arms  of  God. 


96  SONGS   OF  HOME. 


THE    PEDLER    MAN   AT   TORCH    HILL. 

POETS  and  pedlers  !  From  the  early  day 
Till  now  the  night  of  "letters"  closes  blind, 

Pedlers  and  poets  on  the  king's  highway 

Have  met,  with  salutations  quaint  though  kind. 

Who  walks  with    Wordsworth,   or  with    Shakspeare's 
wings 

Winnows  the  gold  from  this  world's  dusty  cares, 
May  glean  a  grace  from  life's  most  common  things, 

And  entertain  an  angel  unawares. 

In  thoughts  like  these  my  inner  man  rejoiced, 
As  nightfall  dropped  a  pedler  at  the  gate, 

A  huge  "  bed-tick"  upon  his  shoulder  hoist, 
A  thousand  pounds — in  size,  if  not  in  weight. 

The  house-dog  silenced,  from  the  gate  I  heard 
The  olden  plaint  of  all  the  world's  highways  : 

"  Footsore  and  hungry  !"  though,  I  wis,  no  word 
Of  retrospective  hint  at  "  better  days  !" 

"A  plague  on  pedlers  !"  is  the  form  of  wish 

With  which  one's  pedler  welcome  should  begin ; 

Which,  as  a  poet,  I  condensed  to  "  Pish  !" 
And  bade  the  biped  dromedary  in. 


THE   PEDLER   MAN  AT  TORCH  HILL.         97 

And  in  he  came ;  at  every  step  a  bow 

That  offered  me  the  mattress  on  his  back, 

As  one  by  duty  doubly  bent — to  show 
His  weight  of  obligation  and  of  pack. 

Much  talk,  but  none  that  I  might  understand  ; 

Of  plaintive  demonstration,  also,  much. 
I  only  gathered  that  his  Faderland 

Was  farther  off, — Jerusalem  or  Dutch  ! 

Some  arrant  knight  of  commerce,  who  hath  strayed 
To  these  poor  parts,  by  cheating  fancy  led, 

To  drive  a  brief  but  profitable  trade 

In  lies  and  linen  tapes,  thieving  and  thread  ; 

In  drill-eyed  sharps,  no  sharper  than  himself, 
Tho'  dull  his  eye  and  all  adust  his  skin ; 

To  plunder  pity  of  her  slender  pelf, 

And  thrive  in  chief  when  chiefly  "taken  in." 

His  supper  done,  I  him  to  bed  allowed ; 

But  soon  thereafter,  passing  unawares, 
I  saw  (and  beg  your  pardon  if  I  bowed 

And  said  "Amen")  the  pedler  at  his  prayers! 

I  do  not  deem  all  pedlers  are  devout ; 

I  do  not  argue  that  they  all  are  Dutch ; 
I  only  urge  the  pressure  of  the  doubt 

To  hold  in  reasonable  honor  such. 


98  SONGS   OF  HOME. 


"GELERT." 

'TWAS  not  for  special  beauty, 

Though  beautiful  was  he, 
Nor  yet  in  reverent  honor 

Of  a  stainless  pedigree, 
That  reached  across  the  ocean, 

Through  twice  a  century. 

But  for  love  that  ever  listened 
To  affection's  lightest  breath, 

For  a  faithfulness  that  glistened 
In  the  very  haze  of  death, 

That  our  cedars  droop  their  shadows, 
And  our  jasmines  twine  a  wreath. 

Under  the  great  Deodar 

There  lies  a  little  mound, — 
As  beneath  some  proud  pagoda 

A  prince  might  slumber  sound, 
In  the  verdure  and  the  odor 

Of  consecrated  ground, — 
And  a  hand  hath  written  "  Gelert" 

In  honor  of  a  hound. 


HOME. 


HOME. 

FOREST-GIRDED,  cedar-scented, 

Veiled  like  Vesper,  sweet  and  dim ; 
Pure  as  burned  the  Temple's  glory, 

Shadowed  by  the  Seraphim ; 
Islet  from  contending  oceans, 

Coral-cinctured,  crowned  with  palm, 
Where  the  wrestling  world's  commotions 

Melt  through  music  into  calm ; 
Throats  that  sing  and  wings  that  flutter 

Softly  'mid  the  balm  and  bloom ; 
Sweeter  sounds  than  lip  can  utter 

Hath  my  heart  for  thee, 
My  home. 

Bless  that  dear  old  Angel  Saxon 

For  the  sounds  he  formed  so  well ; 
Little  words,  the  nectar-waxen 

Harvest  of  a  honey-cell, 
Sealing  all  a  summer's  sweetness 

In  a  single  syllable  ! 
For,  of  all  his  quaint  word-building, 

The  queen -cell  of  all  the  comb 
Is  that  grand  old  Saxon  mouthful, 

Dear  old  Saxon  heartful, 
Home. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  HUMOR. 


101 


"NINA"— HER    EYES. 

I  KNOW  the  summers  that  can  speak 

For  all  the  olive  of  thy  cheek ; 

I  know  the  gentle  lineage  rare 

That  crowns  thy  head  with  midnight  hair  \ 

But  whence — don't  send  me  to  the  skies  ! — 

The  splendor,  Nina,  of  your  eyes  ? 

Now,  Nina,  there's  your  needle  !    Knit ! 

Your  lashes  drooped  a  little  bit ; 

I'm  writing  "letters,"  and  afraid 

Of  brilliant  cross-lights  ;  lend  me  shade. 

Nay  !  there's  a  dimple  at  your  lips, 

And  there — you  dazzle,  past  eclipse  ! 

Was  it  of  much  or  little  "grace" 
To  mock  these  clouds  of  commonplace 
With  a  whole  summer  sunset's  dyes, 
Because  you  must  lift  up  your  eyes  ? 
Sending  my  missive  all  amiss, 
Turning  my  "letter"  into  this  ! 

You  couldn't  help  it !     Once,«amid 
A  temple's  twilight,  it  betid 
The  soft  glow  of  a  vestal's  light 
Slept  on  the  crosslet  of  a  knight, 

103 


104     POEMS    OF  SENTIMENT  AND  HUMOR. 

And  wrought — nor,  Nina,  might  it  less 
Of  loyalty  and  tenderness — 
The  matchless  radiance  that  lies 
Deep  in  the  splendor  of  your  eyes  ! 


TO    THE    LITTLE    LADY    ALICE. 

No  dew  distils  on  Georgia's  hills, 

Or  eke  Circassia's  valleys, 
That  leaves  a  pearl  on  lily's  curl 

As  pure  as  Lady  Alice  ! 
My  lily-pet !   my  violet ! 

My  little  Lady  Alice  ! 

As  rare  as  rise  through  Southern  skies 

Aurora-boreales ! 
As  rare  as  rose  on  Northern  snows, 

Or  heart 's-ease  in  a  palace, 
Is  she,  my  sprite  !  my  brownie  bright ! 
My  little  Lady  Alice  ! 

The  wise  old  Greek  his  fate  might  seek, 

And  bear  his  foes  no  malice ; 
And  so  might  I,  my  idol's  eye, 

\(  you  but  bore  the  chalice, 
And  drink  to  thee  in  three  times  three, 

My  little  Lady  Alice  ! 
My  heart's  delight !   my  star  of  night  ! 
My  perfect  little  chrysolite  ! 

My  little  Lady  Alice  ! 


BROWNIE  BELLE,   OF   THE   ESQUILINE.      105 


BROWNIE  BELLE,  OF  THE  ESQUILINE. 

(ON    HER   RETURN    FROM    EUROPE.) 

WHERE  the  almond  blossoms  first, 
Where  the  nectarines  are  nursed,   ' 
Grew  with  cedar  and  with  pine, 
Grew  with  violet  and  vine, 

With  her  brows  of  calm, 
With  her  eyes  divine, 

With  her  breath  of  balm, 
And  her  blush  like  wine, 
Brownie  Belle,  of  the  Esquiline. 

Grew  in  grace, 
Like  the  blue  Glycine  ; 

Grew  in  grace, 
Like  a  jessamine ; 

In  stateliness, 
Like  a  Norfolk  pine ; 

With  a  tender  gloom 
In  her  eyes  divine, 

And  an  olive  bloom 
Through  her  blush  like  wine  ; 

Grew  in  grace, — 
And  I  knew  the  girl, 

From  her  dancing  foot 
To  her  floating  curl. 


lo6      POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT  AND   HUMOR. 

Grew  in  grace, — 
And  I  knew  her  well, 

From  the  honey-dew 
To  the  nectar-cell ; 

From  the  morning  mist, 
Till  the  manna  fell 

On  the  tents,  the  lips 
Of  Israel. 


In  stateliness,  like  the  star  of  trees 
With  the  silver  lace,  from  the  Indian  seas, 
When  the  silver  mist 
And  the  stars  are  met 
On  her  coronet ; 

On  the  stately  crest  of  the  stateliest 
Star-lit  Tree-star, 
Bright  Deodar. 

Sweet  the  air  of  the  Esquiline, 
From  morning  prayer  till  nut's  and  wine ; 
Where  the  dancing  gods  of  days  divine 
Might  dance  on  sods  embroidered  fine 
With  the  richest  tints  of  the  ripest  wine 
Of  every  land  where  the  sun  doth  shine. 

We'll  gather  all 

Of  the  bright  and  sweet ; 
We'll  lay  them  all 

At  our  Brownie's  feet. 
We'll  gather  all  for  a  garland  feast, 
When  the  stars  recall  our  star  from  the  East. 
When  she  comes,  she  comes 


"  SUNBEAM."  107 

With  her  balm  and  bloom  ; 
And  the  tender  gloom 

Of  her  eyes  shall  shine 
To  crown  the  lights  of  the  Esquiline. 


"SUNBEAM." 

(TO   MISS    E.    V.    C.) 

IT  was  an  old  philosopher, 

And  also  very  wise, 
That  had  a  little  "prism" 

And  specs  before  his  eyes ; 
And  he  caught  a  little  sunbeam 

That  he  would  analyze. 

It  was  a  rare  philosopher 

That  labored  days  and  nights, 

And  split  his  little  sunbeam 
Into — seven — lights  j 

And  he  blessed  his  specs  and  prism 
That  showed  such  lovely  sights. 

And  he  gathered  mighty  glory 

For  doing  little  more 
Than  a  little  drop  of  water 

Had  often  done  before ; 
And  his  name,  'twas  Newton,  kindles 

'Till  the  light  shall  shine  no  more. 


108      POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT  AND   HUMOR. 

Ah  !  had  he  caught  the  sunbeam 

Our  poet  saw  one  day, 
He  would  have  split  his  prism, 

And  thrown  his  specs  away ; 
A  dew-drop  could  have  shown  him 

More  colors  to  the  ray. 

Our  poet  keeps  no  prism 

Nor  other  glasses,  yet 
His  simple  optics  sundered, 

'Twixt  pearl  and  violet, 
At  least  a  half  a  hundred, 

And  he  is  counting  yet ! 


TO    A    LADY    OF    TEXAS,    IN    ITALY. 

(MRS.  WILLIAM    MAVERICK.) 

A  THOUSAND  leagues  of  steam  and  foam, 

To  breathe,  tho'  but  an  hour,  in  Rome  ! 

To  wake  in  Florence,  or  to  be 

Cradled  in  Venice  by  the  sea ! 

Yet  sometimes,  lady,  when  thine  eyes 

Are  weary  of  yon  wondrous  skies, 

With  all  thy  pulses  languid  grown 

To  miracles  in  stain  and  stone, 

Seek  thou  some  sacred  fountain  dim, 

A  mirror  with  its  marble  rim, 

And  bend  thy  "sunbeam"  face  to  see 

The  fairest  thing  in  Italy ! 

Yea,  lovelier  than  the  sunset  seas 

Kindled,  to  guide  the  Genoese  ! 


TO  —      .  109 


TO 

OFFENDED    BY   A    COMPLIMENT    FROM   A    STRANGER, 

WHAT  !  must  the  glowing  heart  forbear 

Its  homage  to  the  skies, 
When  all  the  glories  wandering  there 

But  wake  to  win  our  eyes? 
Shall  earth  come  forth  in  vain  to  wear 

Her  robe  of  endless  dyes, 
And  not  to  aught  of  bright  or  fair 

Our  adoration  rise  ? 
Nay,  from  the  sternest  soul  would  steal 
The  homage  it  could  not  conceal. 

The  stars  with  but  a  lovelier  ray 

Our  lowly  homage  bless ; 
And  earth  receives  with  smiles  more  gay 

Our  debt  of  thankfulness. 
Then  why  the  deep  emotion  stay, 

The  burning  words  repress, 
That  fill  the  worship  we  would  pay 

To  woman's  loveliness? 
As  pure  as  Heaven,  than  earth  more  fair, 
How  dark  the  soul  that  bows  not  there  ! 


10 


no      POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT  AND  HUMOR. 


THE    BRIDE. 

HER  eyes  are  bright  as  stars  that  keep 

Their  watch  in  midnight  skies ; 
Her  voice  as  sweet  as  winds  that  sweep 

The  harps  of  Paradise. 
And  thou  must  quench  the  starry  rays 

That  make  the  midnight  fair, 
Ere  thou  canst  teach  the  heart  to  gaze 

And  not  to  worship  there. 

Learn,  if  thou  wilt,  from  wisdom's  store, 

The  stoic's  boasted  art; 
And  lose,  like  him,  the  only  lore 

That  could  have  cheered  thy  heart. 
Then  die,  for  life  hath  naught  of  bloom 

Around  thy  path  to  shine  ; 
And  death  can  bring  no  deeper  gloom 

To  souls  so  dark  as  thine. 


THE   BR  0  WN  BRID  GE.  1 1 1 


THE   BROWN    BRIDGE. 

THE  brown  bridge  spans  the  streamlet,  and 
The  evergreens  from  hand  to  hand 
Arch  the  roadway's  snow-white  sand. 

A  picture  !  and  I  loved  the  same 
Till  Annie  there  to  meet  me  came 
And  turned  my  picture  to  a  frame, 

An  oval,  such  as  might  entwine 
The  mild  Madonna  of  a  shrine 
From  some  old  master's  hand  divine. 

And  ever  since,  in  passing  there, 

The  same  sweet  phantom  haunts  the  air 

With  azure  eyes  and  golden  hair. 

Grow  on,  ye  evergreens,  and  throw 
Soft  shadows  on  the  dust  below ! 
And  ye  dark  waters  murmur  low 

Of  other  streams,  not  dark  or  wide, 
So  Annie  with  the  grace  that  died 
Shall  meet  me  on  the  other  side. 


I  2      POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT  AND  HUMOR. 


THE    VALLEY    OF    NACOOCHEE, 


CHILD  of  our  Chattahoochee, 

Hid  in  the  hills  afar ; 
Oh  !  beautiful  Nacoochee, 

Light  of  the  Evening  Star  ! 

Smile  of  the  dreaming  maiden, 
Song  of  the  bird's  release; 

Grace  of  the  blest  in  Aidenne, 
Valley  of  light  and  peace. 

Clasped  in  the  mountain  shadows, 
The  May  dew  on  her  breast, 

Her  breath  is  the  balm  of  meadows, 
Her  name  is  a  hymn  to  "  Rest." 

The  voice  of  a  loved  one  calling 
To  feet  that  have  wandered  far: 

Return,  for  the  night  is  falling; 
Rest  with  the  Evening  Star. 


THE   HALL.  113 


THE    HALL. 

(PAGE  BROOK.) 

THERE  is  dust  on  the  door-way,  there  is  mould   on 

the  wall ; 
There's  a  chill   at   the   hearth-stone,   a  hush   through 

the  hall ; 

And  the  stately  old  mansion  stands  darkened  and  cold 
By  the  leal  loving  hearts  that  it  sheltered  of  old. 

No  light  at  the  lattice,  no  gleam  from  the  door ; 
No  feast  on  the  table,  no  mirth  on  its  floor ; 
But  "Glory  departed"  and  silence  alone. 
"  Dust  unto  dust"  upon  pillar  and  stone. 

No  laughter  of  childhood,  no  shout  on  the  lawn  ; 
No  footstep  to  echo  the  feet  that  are  gone : 
Feet  of  the  beautiful,  forms  of  the  brave, 
Failing  in  other  lands,  gone  to  the  grave ! 

No  carol  at  morning,  no  hymn  rising  clear ; 

No  song  at  the  bridal  nor  chaunt  at  the  bier. 

All  the  chords  of  its  symphonies  scattered  and  riven  ; 

Its  altar  in  ashes,  its  incense  in  Heaven  ! 

Is  there  paean  for  Glory,  whose  triumph  shall  stand 
By  the  wreck  of  a  home  once  the  pride  of  the  land  ? 


H4     POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT  AND  HUMOR. 

Its  chambers  unfilled  as  its  children  depart, 
The  melody  stilled  in  its  desolate  heart ! 

Yet  the  verdure  shall  creep  to  the  mouldering  wall, 
And   the  sunshine  shall   sleep  in  the  heart  of   "The 

Hall;" 

And  the  foot  of  the  pilgrim  shall  find  till  the  last 
Some  fragrance  of  Home  at  this  shrine  of  the  Past. 


THE    OLD    HARPSICHORD. 

"  In  one  room  of  this  deserted  mansion  we  came  upon  an  old  harp 
sichord  with  a  single  unbroken  string.  Evoking  the  last  sound  from 
it,  we  extracted  the  key,  which  you  will  find  herewith."— Letter  from 
the  Old  Dominion, 

WHAT  of  the  night,  old  sleeper? 

What  of  thy  watch  so  lone  ? 
Of  the  darkness  and  dust,  and  deeper, 

The  silence  that  shrouds  thine  own  ? 
What  song  for  the  tuneless  Reaper 

Who  binds  all  songs  in  one? 
Crown  thou  his  sheaf,  oh  sleeper  ! 

With  a  requiem  monotone  ! 

One  chord  in  thy  heart  unbroken  ! 

One  key  to  that  chord  alone  ! 
A  touch — and  thy  thought  hath  spoken  ; 

A  sigh— and  thy  song  hath  flown  ! 
A  sigh  for  the  single  token 

Of  all  who  have  sung  and  flown  ! 


THE    COLONNADE.  115 

Of  symphonies  ceased  forever ; 

Of  harmonies  heard  no  more ; 
Of  chords  that  have  ceased  to  quiver 

Or  ever  thy  task  was  o'er  : 
Songs  and  their  symphonies  never 

Dying  in  requiems  more. 

Silence  and  darkness  blended, 

Dust  on  a  desolate  shore, 
Footprints  of  angels  ascended 

Around  us  forevermore  ! 
When  the  lips  of  the  beautiful  singers 

With  the  silvery  chords  lie  low, 
And  only  an  echo  lingers 

Of  the  melodies  sweet  and  old, 
To  blend  'neath  their  seraph  fingers 

With  a  hymn  from  their  harps  of  gold. 


THE    COLONNADE. 

A  STILLNESS  in  the  lonely  hall, 

A  shadow  on  the  vacant  wall, 

A  broken  hearth,  an  incense  flown, 

And  dust  upon  the  altar-stone ; 

What  deeper  gloom  to  match  the  shade 

That  wraps  the  lonely  Colonnade  ? 

White  roses  round  the  columns  cling, 
White  moonbeams  in  the  flow'r  may  fling 
A  mingled  shadow,  when  appear 
The  lost  of  many  a  lonely  year, 


Il6      POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT  AND   HUMOR. 

In  phantom  forms,  that  meet  and  fade 
Along  the  lonely  Colonnade. 

No  more  beneath  the  moonlit  leaves 
The  evening  star  its  song  receives.; 
For  many  golden  chords  are  riven 
That  sent  that  twilight  song  to  heaven, 
And  scattered  far  the  feet  that  strayed 
Along  the  lonely  Colonnade. 

No  more  in  murmured  tones  rehearse 
The  hero's  tale,  the  lover's  verse, 
Nor  voice  of  song,  nor  sigh  of  flute, 
Where  lips  of  sweeter  tone  are  mute ; 
Oh,  lips  !  that  loving  hands  have  laid 
Far  from  the  lonely  Colonnade. 

Oh,  sister  !   if  the  past  imparts 
But  dreams  of  sadness  to  our  hearts, 
Why  ask  we  of  the  coming  years 
A  better  blessedness  than  tears, 
Amid  the  pale  white  flowers  arrayed 
Along  life's  lonely  Colonnade? 


THE   HILLS.  i  I  7 


THE    HILLS. 


BELOW  the  granite  chain 

Appalachian, 

Above  the  sandy  plain, 

Which  under-dips  the  main, 
There  lies  a  belt  of  hills, 
Which  the  Middle  Georgian  tills. 

The  hills  !  and  how  came  they  ? 
The  yellow,  red,  and  gray? 
The  gravel,  sand,  and  clay  ? 
The  big  ones,  why  so  tall  ? 
The  little  ones,  so  small? 
How  came  they  here  at  all  ? 

Is  the  mystery  that  fills 

The  history  of  the  hills, 

With  much  perplexity 

For  my  geology. 

Whether  deposited 
In  the  deep  ocean's  bed, 
As  one  might  softly  spread 
An  ancient  feather-bed 
Over  an  earthquake's  head. 
Till  waking  with  a  shout, 
The  giant  laid  about, 
And  made  a  hill  "crop  out" 


n8      POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT  AND  HUMOR, 

For  every  deadly  blow 
Delivered  down  below. 


Or  whether  'twas  the  gift 
(A  most  prodigious  lift !) 
Of  the  era  known  as  "drift," 
When  the  ice-raft  stole  away 
The  gravel,  sand,  and  clay 
From  many  an  Arctic  bay, 
And  "bowlder,"  by  the  way, 
Bore  southward  day  by  day 
Till  on  the  floor  it  lay, — 

On  the  grooved  and  furrowed  floor 
Of  the  slow-receding  sea, — 
And,  cracking  with  a  roar, 
Poured  mud  from  every  pore, 
To  make  one  hillock  more, 

Which  the  slow-receding  sea, 
With  its  softly-lapping  hands 
Amid  the  moistened  sands, 

Like  a  man  that  undertakes 

To  mould  before  he  bakes, 

Or  a  child  that  patti-cakes, — 
Which  the  slow-receding  sea, 
With  its  softly-dimpled  hands, 
With  its  foam-white  ruffled  hands, 
With  its  diamonded  hands, 

Bequeathed  as  "Cotton-Lands" 

To  all  the  world — to  me, 

And  my  Geology, 

A  much  perplexi — T. 


THE  HILLS.  119 


IT. 


"  The  hills,  and  how  came  they?" 
We  pondered  yesterday; 
As  one  who  rhymes  his  way 

Through  the  mystery  that  fills 

The  history  of  hills — 

The  everlasting  hills — 
With  an  everlasting  doubt 
As  to  how  they  came  about. 

To  a  metre  not  more  slow, 
To  a  measure  that  must  flow 
To  the  echo  of  a  woe, 
We  rhyme  again  to  show 
The  hills,  and  where  they  go. 
Their  coming  none  may  know, 
Nor  question  where  they  go  ! 

Oh,  brothers  !  shall  the  land 
Which  our  loving  Father  planned 
For  the  honest  heart  and  hand, — 
The  hills  our  Father  planned, 
And  with  softest  seasons  spanned, 
Which  he  gathered  from  the  sea, 
And  gave  to  you  and  me, — 
Hear  the  echo  of  the  woe, 
"  The  hills  !  and  here  they  go 
To  the  ocean,  whence  they  sprung, 
Bewept,  and  not  unsung  /" 
My  brothers,  answer  No  ! 


120      POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT  AND   HUMOR 

The  hills  !     We  love  the  hills. 
Their  heads  are  nearest  Heaven, 
Their  sides  to  morn  and  even  ! 
There  is  a  joy  that  fills 
Their  anthem  to  the  day ; 
There  is  a  peace  that  fills 
The  requiem  of  hills 
To  the  light  that  dies  away. 
'Tis  more  than  song  or  wine 
To  see  their  summits  shine, 
Through  twilight's  purple  wine, 
Like  islands  of  the  blest, 
In  the  ocean  of  their  rest ; 
When  the  broad  palm  of  the  sun, 
With  his  signet-star  thereon, 
Is  raised  in  benison, 

"  Hold  fast  the  hills  below  ! 
Your  hills  and  homes,  and  so 
Until  the  dark  be  light, 
God  bless  you,  and  good-night !" 


JUN1AL  USKEE.  \  2  i 


JUNIALUSKEE. 

(A    FAMOUS   SOUTHERN    APPLE    OF    INDIAN    ORIGIN.) 

WHERE  shall  the  red  man  rest  at  last,  that  the  white 

man  shall  not  find  him? 
Where  shall  his  wigwam  smoke  arise,  nor  draw  his 

"fate"  behind  him? 
Where  shall  he  plant  an  apple-seed  that  a  pale-face 

shall  not  gather 
The  golden  fruit  ere  the  downward  root  hath  tapped 

the  Indian's  father  ? 

Under  his  spreading  apple-tree,  to  his  sons  and  daugh 
ters  dusky, 

With  their  heads  bowed  down  to  their  travel-gear, 
spoke  Chieftain  Junialuskee. 

His  sons  and  daughters  are  on  their  way,  and  Junia 
luskee  follows. 

And  his  apple-tree?  Why  Junialus/£^?  sold  it  for  fifty 
dollars ! 


n 


I22      POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT  AND  HUMOR. 


NANTAHALEE. 

YOU'VE  heard,  I  think,  of  the  beautiful  maid 

Who  fled  from  Love's  caresses, 
Till  her  beautiful  toes  were  turned  to  roots, 
And  both  her  shoulders  to  beautiful  shoots, 
And  her  beautiful  cheeks  to  beautiful  fruits, 

And  to  blossoming  spray  her  tresses ! 

I've  seen  her,  man  !  she's  living  yet 

Up  in  a  Cherokee  valley ! 
She's  an  apple-tree  !  and  her  name  might  be, 
In  the  softly-musical  Cherokee, 

A  long-drawn  "  Nantahalee  !" 
'Tis  as  sweet  a  word  as  you'll  read  or  write; 
Not  quite  as  fair  as  the  thing,  yet  quite 
Sufficient  to  start  an  old  anchorite 
Out  of  his  ashes  to  bless  and  bitt 

The  beautiful  "  Nantahalee  !" 


FABLE.  123 


FABLE. 

NOT   IN   ^ESOP. 

TWIN  Buckets  there  lived  in  a  well. 
This  is  their  Parable. 

Said  the  one,  as  he  downward  went, 
With  a  rattle  of  discontent : 

"What  folly  !  drawn  full  to  the  top, 
Returning  with  never  a  drop  !" 

Quoth  his  mate,  coming  skyward,  "  Why,  nay  ! 
I  see  it  another  way. 

"  However  thirsty  we  sink, 

We  rise  with  a  plenty  to  drink  !" 

Life's  tapestry's  woven  so  that  it 
Shines  just  as  you  choose  to  look  at  it, 

And  responds,  as  your  wisdom  hath  struck  it, 
Like  a  full  or  an  empty  bucket ! 


124      POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT  AND  HUMOR. 


THE    SPHINX. 

THE  Sphinx  by  the  Desert  stands, 

Lord  of  the  lonely  lands, 

With  the  dust  of  the  Desert  sands 

On  its  head,  and  its  heart,  and  its  hands. 

Ages  before  the  Flood 

Ere  the  Delta  grew  out  of  the  mud, 

Up  to  its  knees  it  stood 

In  a  deluge  of  tears  and  blood  ! 

The  Desert  was  out  of  sight 

When  the  creature  was  dragged  to  light, 

Out  of  the  caves  of  Night, 

And  the  Desert  was  puzzled  quite. 

'Twas  a  riddle  they  used  to  tell 
At  the  digging  of  Joseph's  well, 
Ere  the  scourge  of  the  Pharaohs  fell 
On  the  shoulders  of  Israel ! 

And  there's  never  a  star  that  winks 

On  Africa  as  it  sinks 

But  wonders  whenever  it  thinks 

Of  the  world  and  its  wonderful  Sphinx. 

And  there's  nothing  by  land  or  sea 
Can  ever  expect  to  be 
Such  an  ugly  old  puzzle  as  he 
Except  old  Tyranny. 


THE  FARMER   MAN. 

A  riddle  to  rest  unread 

Till  the  Pharaohs  are  dead, 

Till  the  people  shall  toil  for  bread, 

And  not  for  a  stone  instead. 


125 


THE    FARMER    MAN. 

TO    W.    N.    N. 

FYTTE   I. 

THE  farmer  man  !  I  see  him  sit 
In  his  low  porch,  to  muse  a  bit 
The  while  I  throw  him  in  a — Fytte. 

What  time  the  jasmines  scent  the  air, 
And  drop  their  blossoms  in  his  hair; 

What  time  the  evening  echo  tells 

Of  trampling  herds  and  tinkling  bells ; 

And  all  the  echoes  of  the  Ark 
Salute  the  planter-patriarch  ! 

So  sitting  with  his  collar  spread, 
And  heels  y'levelled  with  his  head; 

A  monarch  in  his  mere  content, 
A  king  by  general  consent. 


I26       POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT  AND   HUMOR. 


FYTTE   II. 

And  framed  between  his  heels  he  sees 
A  picture,  which  perchance  may  please : 

The  distant  city,  and  more  nigh 
The  river's  twinkle,  like  an  eye 

Obscured  at  intervals  by  motes, 
Which  quite  extract  its  beam  with  boats. 

The  purple  hills  where,  swift  or  slow, 
The  cloudless  shadows  come  and  go ; 

While,  dun  as  dormice,  at  their  hem 
The  little  cars  follow  them, 

With  all  the  clatter  that  portends 
The  most  prodigious  dividends  ! 

The  cottages  with. curling  smoke, 
Significant  of  "colored  folk," 

The  first  without  a  foe  or  care, 

To  breathe  Millennium's  morning  air. 

And  in  their  midst  a  lovely  mound 
Most  eloquent,  without  a  sound, 

Tells  how  the  parting  years  have  sped 
With  the  black  savage  and  the  red. 


THE  FARMER   MAN.  127 

The  yellow  cornfields  and  the  brown, 
Where  Southern  snows  have  melted  down, 


And  borne  its  all-abundant  lint 

To  drown  the  mills  and  drain  the  mint. 

The  woods  whose  autumn  glories  cheer 
The  solemn  sunset  of  the  year, 

With  oval  openings,  which  enshrine 
Such  views  as  we  are  picturing, 

And  hint  how  much  the  traveller  sees 
Who  stays  at  home  and  studies  trees, 

And  thanks  the  telescope,  tho'  dim, 
That  keeps  its  smallest  eye  on  him, 

And  nearer  home  all  shape  and  sheen 
Of  Nature's  endless  evergreen, 

Through  which  a  winding  walk  doth  glide 
To  orchards,  jubilant  and  wide, 

Restrained  within  an  emerald  edge, 
Of  fair,  tho'  somewhat  thorny  hedge. 

An  archway  entrance,  and  o'erhead 
This  little  legend  to  be  read  : 

"Partake  of  <?//the  fruit,  nor  grieve 
For  Eden's  morn  or  Ecien's  Eve  !" 


128      POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT  AND   HUMOR. 

FYTTE    III. 

2?#/what  of  him,  the  farmer  man, 
His  way  of  life  and  being's  plan? 

Why  simply  (be  it  so  with  many  !) 
That  "  Now's  as  good  a  time  as  any." 

Yet  he  can  tell  you  of  a  morn 
Ere  yonder  valley  sang  with  corn, 

Or  yonder  hill-top  bared  its  brow, 
Submissive  to  the  sun  and  plow. 

And  long  before  yon  proud  white  spires 
Crushed  out  the  low  red  council-fires. 

With  not  a  "turn-out"  toe  to  press 
The  dim  walks  of  the  wilderness. 

Of  many  a  season  come  and  flown, 
With  strokes  of  fortune  and  his  own ; 

Till  waves  of  varied  memory 
Shall  leave  him  stranded  as  we  see; 

With  time's  old  foam-marks  in  the  lines, 
Now  starry  with  the  jessamines. 

FYTTE   IV. 

1    His  politics  I  might  rehearse 
In  limits  lesser  than  my  verse. 


THE   FARMER   MAN. 

Should  any  tool  my  State  invade, 
Then  mention  me  as  strict  "  State  aid." 

Till  then  I  mind  my  own  affairs, 

And  trust  my  friends  to  manage  theirs. 

His  science?  such  as  thou  may'st  hit 
By  ploughing  deep  in  search  of  it. 

His  wit?  the  shortest  link  that  girds 
An  English  thought  to  English  words. 

His  credit  ?  shall  the  world  forget 
The  Atlas  that  upheld  her  debt  ? 

His  creed  ?  in  reverence  of  the  past 
Old  faith  and  feeling  holds  he  fast. 

So  that  my  muse's  stenograph 
Anticipates  his  epitaph, — 

"  He  read  the  Bible,  loved  his  wife, 
And  hated  humbug  all  his  life." 

And,  happily,  to  round  my  "pome," 
"Loved  God,  his  neighbor,  and  his  home." 


129 


MEMORIAL  AND  RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


IN    MEMORIAM. 

THOMAS    MADUIT    NELSON,    ^ETAT    71. 

THEY  fail  from  council  and  from  camp,  they  are  falling 

one  by  one, 
Those  grand  old  heroes  of  the  stamp  of  God -loved 

Washington  ; 
The  task  is  wrought  of  mighty  minds,  their  glorious 

day  is  done, 
And  Freedom  mourns  a  faded  star  with  every  setting 

sun. 

The  massive  brow,  the  kindly  hand,  the  proud  and 
stalwart  form 

That  stood  as  beacons  in  the  night,  as  bulwarks  in  the 
storm. 

Ah  !  few  and  far  on  Glory's  slope  their  lessening  num 
bers  stand, 

"The  Pillars  of  a  People's  hope,"  the  Titans  of  the 
land. 

The  mould  is  broken ;  here  no  more  those  regal  souls 
we  meet 

Who  kept  their  honor,  tho'  the  world  had  rocked  be 
neath  their  feet ; 

12  i 


134 


MEMORIAL   AND  RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


The  calm,  clear  dignity  that  shone  no  clearer  for  re 
nown, 

The  matchless  majesty  that  won,  but  would  not  wear  a 
crown. 

Ah  !    when  descends   the   sullen  night  of  Freedom's 

darkest  hour, 
When   Demagogue   and   Parasite   defile    the   seats   of 

power, 
When  dust  is  on  the  eagle's  crest,  and  stain  on  stripe 

and  star, 
Ah  !   who  shall  fill  their  robes  in  peace,  or  lift  their 

swords  in  war  ? 

One  more  to  that  immortal  band,  that  long  illustrious 

line, 
That  counts  no  nobler  name,  old  friend,  or  purer  soul 

than  thine ; 
Yea,  with  the  mighty  in  their  death,  their  rest,  and 

their  reward, 
Sleep,  in  thy  cloudless  Fame  and  Faith,  true  soldier  of 

the  Lord. 

Sleep  with  the  mighty  in  thy  death  !  yet  not  with  these 

alone ; 
Sleep  with  the  loving  hearts  that  beat  so  truly  to  thine 

own. 
Sleep  with  the  sword-cross  on  thy  breast,  the  well-worn 

scabbard  by, 
Fit  symbols  of  a  soldier's  rest  and  his  reward  on  high. 


WILLIAM  NELSON   CARTER.  135 


WILLIAM    NELSON    CARTER. 

SOLDIER    OF    THE    SOUTH    AT    1 6,    OF    THE    CROSS    AT    1 9, 
DIED    AT    KEY   WEST,    AGED    21. 

SPOKE  from  the  stainless  azure 

Of  immemorial  veins, 
"  War  for  the  right  is  over, 

Battle  for  bread  remains." 

And  he  carried  his  bright  smile  from  us, 

Our  choral  of  bird  and  breeze, 
To  the  light  of  the  tideless  summers, 

The  song  of  the  tropic  seas. 

So  far  ! — yet  his  soul's  clear  brightness 

Drew  nearer,  and  never  cold  ; 
Found  speech  in  the  sea-bloom's  whiteness, 

And  kisses  in  fruits  of  gold. 

And  sweeter  than  day-spring's  murmur 
To  the  palm  when  the  spice- wind  stirs 

Were  the  voices  that  sang  from  the  summer, — 
"  Your  darling  has  won  his  spurs!" 

And  we  sang  to  the  voice  of  the  summer, 
With  a  smile  that  was  glad  to  tears, — 

"  If  your  sea  or  your  sand  yield  honor, 
Trust  to  the  cavaliers  !" 


136       MEMORIAL   AND   RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 

Sang  ! — with  the  summer  stooping 

To  shatter  us,  root  and  crest ; 
With  the  lightning  to  signal  "drooping," 

And  the  thunder  to  crash  "  at  rest." 

Dumb  !  and  the  clouds  close  o'er  us, 
And  the  world  reels  blank  and  dim. 

Blind  !   with  our  hands  before  us 
Beseeching  the  mists  for  him. 

Christ's  soldier  !    'Through  all  the  shadows 

One  lily  of  light  shall  rise — 
Not far  !  though  it  smiles  from  the  meadows 

And  summers  of  Paradise. 


MARY. 

(MARY  H.  DILLINGHAM.) 

SHALL  I  whisper  a  name  that  was  lovely  of  old, 
When  the  tale  of  the  infant  Redeemer  was  told, 
The  honored  of  God,  in  her  sorrow  sublime, 
Still  haunting  the  heart  in  the  shadows  of  Time? 

O'er  the  starlight  of  Judah  the  night  mists  were  rolled  ; 
On  the  Galilee's  bosom  the  shadows  lay  cold ; 
When  it  woke  on  the  midnight  so  solemn  and  dim, 
With  the  flame  of  a  star  and  the  sound  of  a  hymn, 

And  bright  with  the  lustre  and  sweet  with  the  tone 
Of  the  angels  that  sang  and  the  glory  that  shone. 


THE    CHURCHYARD    CROSS.  137 

Its  echoes  are  soft,  through  the  haze  of  the  years, 
With  the  breath  of  her  sigh  and  the  dew  of  her  tears. 

And  still  at  the  altar,  and  still  at  the  hearth, 
From  the  cradle  of  Christ  to  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
As  gentle  in  glory,  as  steadfast  in  gloom, 
It  serves  at  His  side,  as  it  knelt  at  His  tomb. 

And  many  shall  bless  it,  and  many  have  blest, 
From  the  morning  of  life  till  the  morrow  of  rest ; 
And  its  fulness  of  meaning  its  music  shall  keep 
While  a  Mary  shall  watch  or  a  Mary  shall  weep. 


THE    CHURCHYARD    CROSS. 

So,  clasp  thine  arms  about  the  Cross, 

And  bow  thy  little  head  ; 
Draw  close  the 'only  links  between 

Our  sorrows  and  our  dead. 

So,  fold  thy  pinions  round  the  Cross, 
Sweet  dove,  and  feel  no  fear ; 

No  note  but  one  of  tenderness 
Shall  ever  meet  thee  here. 

And  from  the  mound  of  sacred  earth 
Our  sundered  hearts  between, 

Draw  thou  the  fragrance  of  her  worth, 
To  keep  her  memory  green. 

12* 


-}  8       MEMORIAL   AND   RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


LITTLE    KATIE. 

THE  Lily  we  love  !  it  is  whiter 

For  the  darkness  that  covers  the  day ; 

The  pearl  of  our  souls  !   it  is  brighter 
For  the  shadows  that  turn  to  gray. 

To  the  sunlight  that  calls,  its  tender, 
Pale  petals  are  closed  and  chill; 

To  the  dew,  though  it  falls  from  the  splendor 
Of  stars,  it  is  silent  still. 

Let  the  darkness  fall  deep,  and  deliver 

Unveiled  to  our  weary  eyes 
The  pearl  by  the  Eden  River — 

Our  Lily  in  Paradise. 


OUR    TREASURE    IN    HEAVEN. 

SLEEP  sweetly,  gentle  one  ; 

Sleep  till  thy  shrouded  eyes 
Shall  waken  'mid  the  Bowers  of  God, 

Oh,  Bird  of  Paradise  ! 

Oh,  softest,  gentlest  hands 
Did  soothe  thee  to  thy  rest ; 

And  the  pure  souls  that  welcomed  thee 
Were  highest  of  the  blest. 


THE   CHILDREN  THAT  ARE   NOT.} 

Often  we'll  call  thy  name, 
And  the  pure  joy  it  brings 

Shall  cheer  us  as  the  rustling  sound 
Of  thy  young  seraph's  wings. 

The  hosts  that  follow  thee 
To  the  pure  Throne  of  God 

Shall  find  no  shadow  in  the  vale 
Thy  little  feet  have  trod. 


139 


THE    CHILDREN    THAT    ARE    NOT." 

THE  children — the  children  that  are  not !  Ah,  why 
From  the  ends  of  the  earth  swells  that  desolate  cry  ? 
Has  the  dull  earth  a  glory,  the  bright  skies  a  gloom, 
That  a  wail  should  arise  at  the  gates  of  the  tomb? 

Ah  !  deem  ye  the  sparrow  its  pathway  may  hold, 
Yet  a  lamb  of  Christ's  love  be  lost  from  his  fold  ? 
That  the  diamond's  sparkle  should  never  burn  dim, 
Yet  a  spirit  be  quenched  that  was  kindled  by  Him  ? 

Are  the  husbandman's  tears  with  his  toil  in  vain? 
From  the  scattered  seed  shall  there  spring  no  grain? 
Hath  the  chrysalis  wings  ere  its  shroud  is  wound? 
Hath  the  violet  breath  in  the  dull  cold  ground? 

Yea !  bless  ye  God,  as  ye  bend  above 

The  broken  lilies  of  tears  and  love, 

That  not  without  witness  the  hope  was  given 

Thut  a  "little  child"  should  be  first  in  Heaven. 


1 40       MEMORIAL   AND   RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 

Yea !  bear  them  to  rest  'mid  the  flowers  that  tell 
Their  Master's  meaning  so  clear  and  well, 
And  know  by  their  pathway  an  angel  hath  trod 
From  the  brightness  of  earth  to  the  bosom  of  God  ! 


FAITH. 

WHY  sits  pale  Sorrow  at  the  gate  of  Heaven, 
With  eyes  so  wan,  such  wild  and  haggard  air, 

As  one  whose  woe  with  God's  own  arm  had  striven, 
And  won  the  triumph  of  a  wild  despair? 

Crouched  where  the  shadow  of  the  marble  portal 
Falls  deep  and  deeper  on  her  clouded  eyes, 

Speeding  with  wail  and  cry  the  feet  immortal 
That  enter  there  the  walks  of  Paradise ! 

Angel  of  Faith  !  shall  sullen  sorrow  render 

Thy  smile  a  mockery  to  the  hearts  that  mourn  ? 

Deepen  the  gloom,  yet  not  reveal  the  splendor 
Where  Saints  depart  and  Seraphim  are  born  ? 

Star  of  our  hearts  !  what  other  light  may  linger, 
When  on  our  eyes  the  tomb's  black  shadow  falls, 

If  thou  trace  not  with  thine  uplifted  finger 
The  gathering  glory  on  its  inner  walls? 

And  thou  !  on  thine  own  gentle  bosom  blending 
The  broken  lilies  of  our  tears  and  love, 

Lighten  the  pathway  where  our  feet  are  tending, 
Lengthen  the  cords  that  guide  our  hearts  above  ! 


SONG   BY  NIGHT.  141 


SONG    BY    NIGHT. 

AND  are  these  the  days  of  the  darkening  haze, 

The  mists  whence  no  star  may  quiver? 
And  is  this  the  moan  of  the  monotone 

Of  the  dark  and  tideless  river? 
We  look  not  back  on  our  weary  track 

For  the  voice  of  a  vanished  chorus ; 
The  lights  are  gone  that  have  led  us  on, 

But  the  path  lies  straight  before  us. 

Let  the  hair  grow  white,  let  the  failing  sight 

Await  but  a  clouded  morrow ; 
We  keep  the  faith  that  we  pledged  to  death 

And  the  troth  we  plighted  sorrow ! 
There  are  flowers  that  bloom  by  the  quiet  tomb 

Of  the  gentle,  the  true,  and  tender; 
And  they  are  all  that  our  prayers  recall, 

Or  the  sepulchre  can  surrender  ! 

Are  there  forms  as  fair  as  we  buried  there  ? 

Are  there  lips  with  such  fragrance  laden  ? 
Are  there  sounds  as  sweet  as  the  bounding  feet 

That  are  white  'mid  the  lilies  of  Aidenne? 
It  may  be  so,  but  they  bring  no  glow 

To  hearts  that  are  haunted  ever 
By  the  shadow  that  lies  on  the  shrouded  eyes, 

And  the  lips  that  are  sealed  forever. 


1 42       MEMORIAL   AND   RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 

Bid  Death  remove  from  the  brows  we  love 

The  damps  of  his  dark'ning  river; 
Let  Heaven  restore  on  its  shining  shore 

The  lost  whom  we  love  forever ! 
Their  light  alone  on  our  pathway  thrown, 

Their  star  to  our  darkness  given, 
Shall  lend  its  fires  to  the  trembling  wires 

That  are  linked  to  our  hearts  and  Heaven. 


TO    MRS.    L.    E.    C. 

UPBORNE  by  angels  in  a  world  of  sorrow, 
In  others'  anguish  losing  half  her  own  ; 

So  taught  of  grief  that  darkened  souls  might  borrow 
Their  light  of  sunshine  from  her  lips  alone ! 

Herself  a  seraph,  whose  unfolding  pinions 
And  upward  glance  betray  her  better  birth, 

Yet  lingering  still  amid  the  dull  world's  minions 
To  win  some  wanderer  from  the  ills  of  earth. 

As  fair  of  form  as  lily-pure  of  spirit, 

Heaven  watched,  yet  humble  in  her  upward  way; 
Ah  !  such  as  she  are  they  who  shall  inherit 

The  strength  and  triumph  of  a  better  day. 


LINES.  143 


LINES. 

You  may  call :    she  will  come  !     Not  the  shadow  of 
night 

Shrouds  a  sorrow  she  shuns  to  meet, 
And  you  shall  not  know  by  her  step  so  light 

That  sharpness  hath  pierced  her  feet : 

That  the  balm  of  her  healing  was  bruised  of  pain, 

The  breath  of  a  smitten  lyre; 
That  the  touch,  so  cool  to  your  fevered  brain, 

Was  purified  by  fire. 

But  you  shall  believe  that  a  wing  so  swift, 

And  a  voice  of  so  sweet  a  tone, 
Shall  shine  with  the  stars  when  the  clouds  uplift, 

And  sing  by  the  great  white  Throne. 


144       MEMORIAL   AND  RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 


ILLUMINATING    LETTERS. 

SHE  wrought :   and  at  her  reverent  touch, 
That  lingered  long  in  loving  much, 

As  to  the  sunlight  and  the  dew 

The  tendril  twined,  the  floweret  grew, 

Till  burned  around  each  holy  name 
A  brightness  as  of  altar  flame ; 

Anthem  and  incense  in  each  word 
That  bore  the  blossom  or  the  bird ; 

Each  letter's  self  a  shrine,  where  art 
Uttered  the  worship  of  the  heart. 

And  still  she  wrought ;  and  still  her  touch, 
That  lingered  long  in  loving  much, 

Recalled  their  task  in  that  old  time 
Who  saw  the  slow  cathedral  climb, 

Grand  with  the  prayers  of  many  days, 
And  glowing  in  its  orb  of  praise  • 

Unfolding,  as  it  neared  the  skies, 
A  Passion-flower  of  centuries  ; 


THE    CEMETERY.  145 

Rich  in  all  grace  that  love  alone 

Can  learn  of  Heaven,  or  teach  to  stone; 

Such  love  as  waits  the  dawn,  and  gave 
The  watch  at  midnight  to  His  grave, 

Steadfast  and  tireless,  till  the  hour 
Unveils  the  Temple's  perfect  Flower, 

"  Christ !"     May  He  wreathe,  as  these  are  wrought, 
Our  lives  with  grace  of  deed  and  thought ! 


THE    CEMETERY. 

A  CHURCHYARD  walk,  and  by  the  way 

We  saw,  on  either  hand, 
More  symbols  of  the  world's  "decay" 

Than  of  the  "better  land!" 

With  more  of  rigid  carpentry, 

And  less  of  bloom  and  leaf, 
Than  tokened  brotherhood  in  death, 

Or  fellowship  in  grief. 

And  yet,  without  these  mouldering  pales, 

'Twere  easy  to  o'erspread, 
With  Eden  grace,  these  silent  vales, 

This  city  of  the  dead. 
13 


146       MEMORIAL   AND   RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 

Without  this  mass  of  tangled  brier 
Yon  oak  were  not  less  green  ; 

And  happily  yon  Heavenward  spire 
Were  more  distinctly  seen  ! 

The  "vexed  Bermuda"  here  might  rest 

In  undisturbed  retreat, 
On  many  a  long-forgotten  breast 

And  long-neglected  street. 

The  dead  white  column,  cross  and  urn 

With  Olive  shadowed  o'er, 
Might  teach  us,  when  we  come  to  mourn, 

This  much,  if  nothing  more  : 

That  vainly  o'er  our  lost  delights 
The  pomp  of  marble  towers, 

Without  the  gentle  care  that  writes 
Its  Martha-thought  in  flowers. 


THE   BEAUTY  OF  HOLINESS.  147 


THE    BEAUTY    OF    HOLINESS. 

RECALL — while  now  thy  longing  gaze, 
Grows  dim  with  more  than  autumn's  haze — 
Of  all  the  walks  thy  feet  have  pressed, 
That  path  the  peacefullest  to  rest  : 

Of  fountains  that  thy  need  have  nursed, 
That  "  well"  the  sweetest  to  thy  thirst : 

Of  flowers — and  lo  !   thy  hands  were  full — 
That  blossom  the  most  beautiful : 

Of  touch  and  tone,  through  all  the  past, 
The  tenderest  and  lingering  last : 

That  radiance  of  the  vanished  years, 
Most  radiant  for  thy  very  tears. 

Name  that  which,  trembling  like  a  star, 
Shines  with  our  loved  and  lost,  so  far; 

Yet  nearest  to  our  inner  dreams 
Brings  the  soft  flow  of  Eden's  streams ; 

Lighting  the  shadow  where  we  stand 
With  angel  eyes  on  either  hand. 

Mute  lips,  or  with  hosannas,  these 
Bear  witness  with  our  memories, 


148       MEMORIAL    AND   RELIGIOUS   POEMS. 

In  music  blending  to  express 
Pure  beauty  in  its  perfectness — 
Earth's  charm,  Heaven's  glory — 
"Holiness." 


EASTER. 

CHRIST  !  arisen?     Lift  your  eyes  ! 
Lo  !   what  glory  fills  the  skies  ! 
Winter's  death  is  dead,  and  born 
The  summer's  hope  in  springing  corn. 
While  the  lily  cleaves  the  sod, 
Who  shall  bind  the  Son  of  God  ? 

Christ!  arise?     The  sun  to-day 
Unseals  a  tomb,  and  rolls  away 
All  mists  of  midnight  like  a  stcne ; 
All  raiment  save  of  light  alone. 
Shall  the  single  shadow  fall 
On  the  Christ,  the  Lord  of  all? 

Christ !   arisen  ?     Roman  steel 
Sentineled  that  stone  and  seal. 
Rome,  in  her  imperial  power, 
Watched  until  the  dawning  hour, — 
Watched  and  witnessed 7  bowed  and  said, 
"  Christ  is  risen  from  the  dead  !" 

Oh,  by  all  an  Age's  trust ! 
By  our  darlings  laid  in  dust ! 


THE    CHURCH.  149 

In  our  griefs  the  single  stay  ; 
Of  our  joys  the  central  ray  ; 
Cease,  my  Doubt,  thy  sentry  tread  ! 
"  Christ  is  risen  from  the  dead  !" 


THE    CHURCH. 

DEAR  Mother  !  in  this  weary  waste 

And  wilderness  of  woe, 
How  sweet  the  smile,  how  soft  the  rest 

Thy  little  children  know  ! 

The  trumpet's  clangor  at  thy  wall 

Stirs  not  thy  peace  above; 
We  hear,  and  only  hear,  the  call 

Of  our  dear  Mother's  love. 

Her  touch  upon  our  infant  brow, 

Her  tears  above  our  dead, 
Her  tones  of  tenderness,  are  now 

As  in  the  years  that  fled. 

Nor  fades  of  all  her  bloom  and  balm 
One  blossom  from  her  wreath, 

More  radiant  in  celestial  calm 
For  all  the  storms  beneath. 

Bright  Beacon  !  nearest  to  the  skies 

Of  all  that  light  the  sea. 
Blest  Haven  !   where  our  treasure  lies, 

And  where  our  hearts  would  be. 


1 50       MEMORIAL    AND   RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 

Most  steadfast  as  our  pillars  fall 
And  pride  and  pleasures  cease. 

Earth's  sorrows  !   who  hath  known  them  all, 
Best  knows  thy  perfect  peace. 


THE    END. 


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